


Vast, Strange, New

by recoveringrabbit



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, FitzSimmons Secret Santa, Historical AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-11 01:08:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5608000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recoveringrabbit/pseuds/recoveringrabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1851, the British Empire hosted the Great Exhibition of the Works of Industry of all Nations, bringing together under one enormous roof 13,000 exhibits from over fifty countries. It lasted for six months, was visited by six million people, provided the seed money for three museums—and provided the perfect opportunity for one Jemma Simmons, aspiring scientist, to meet one Leopold Fitz, trod-upon engineer. What will two brilliant minds with the whole world at their feet discover? Only the most vast, strange, new, and impossible to describe thing of all: someone else's heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roamingbadger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roamingbadger/gifts).



> My Secret Santa gift for @roamingbadger, who asked for a Historical AU. With all of history to choose from, you didn't make it easy, but I hope you enjoy it!

Jemma gasped as the Crystal Palace came into sight, its millions of panes of cast plate glass shining welcomingly through the trees of Hyde Park. The stream of people making their way up to the building only emphasized its massive size—1851 feet long, the papers had said, and 138 feet high—and yet she felt as though she could knock it over as easily as a house of cards. How could something so large look so delicate? It was truly a feat of engineering. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed.

Beside her, her mother sniffed dismissively. “It looks well enough now. One certainly wouldn’t have thought so a fortnight ago.”

“Oh, but,” Jemma said, nearly hanging over the side of the carriage to keep it in view, “they had to finish it before Her Majesty arrived. They wouldn’t have let England be a laughingstock in front of her or the whole world.”

“Even so,” her mother said, “I can’t imagine it will be so impressive inside. You know newspaper men are dreadful embellishers.”

Jemma privately disagreed, but kept her mouth shut. The mere fact that she was here was an unlooked-for blessing, as her mother had been less than excited at the prospect of promenading around a glorified greenhouse filled with the tools and goods of what she somewhat sneeringly called “the trades”. Even Jemma’s pointed observation that the Queen herself had attended and enjoyed her experience had no effect. Were it not for the enthusiasm of Mrs. Simmons’s bosom friend Mrs. Partridge, the Great Exhibition of the Works of Industry of all Nations might have closed without Jemma ever stepping foot inside. As it was, the Exhibition had been open for nigh on a week already; they were on the verge of being so tardy as to be unfashionable. Perhaps, if they were fortunate, the throngs of people would have come and gone, leaving Jemma and her party a clear path to all the important exhibits. She intended to make the most of this opportunity in case she shouldn’t be granted another one.

Descending from their carriage at the valet stand, Jemma and her mother joined the crowds wending their way towards the building, going slowly as to avoid having their gowns trampled upon. It felt rather as though they were going at a snail’s pace; only her two decades of training kept Jemma from picking up her skirts and sprinting. The closer they came, the more the boulder of excitement threatened to crush her chest. A hundred thousand wonders awaited her inside and she could scarcely wait to see every single one.

Her mother grumbled as she paid the entrance fee, jerking sharply at the drawstring of her reticule once she had handed over the two pounds for herself and Jemma. “Honestly, it’s near highway robbery—”

“But, Mama, wouldn’t you rather pay a little this way than in taxes later?” Jemma bounced on her toes, trying to see over the broad shoulders of the man in front of her—the disadvantages of a petite stature. Unsuccessful, she contented herself with taking in what little she could with the rest of her senses: the cool updrafts, the smell of the fresh-laid boards beneath her feet, the sound of pounding machinery and water falling from a great height. Somewhere an organ played. To either side, rough walls hid what she assumed to be offices. As they moved further in, though, the walls gave way to thin cast iron pillars and a blur of colors and shadows; while they were moving too quickly to see anything specific, she caught glimpses of rich fabrics, deeply colored porcelain, and something that looked a bit like a model of a boat. Then they came out into the main nave and she lost her breath with the grandeur. Everywhere she looked there was something beautiful and fascinating—sculptures carriages two living trees a fountain that reached to the upper galleries red signs with the names of distant lands printed in gold giant machines was than an elephant? surely not—she held her bonnet on with one gloved hand and craned her neck to take in as much as possible. It was bewildering, honestly; how did one decide what to look at first?

“Jemma!”

She blinked as if being awakened from a trance. A few steps away, her mother had stopped abruptly to purse her lips. “Come, dear. We’re already tardy. Mrs. Partridge will be waiting.”

Mrs. Partridge was indeed waiting, seated on the lip of the pink glass fountain like a complacent squirrel. Jemma and her mother bobbed the appropriate curtseys even as the other woman got to her feet and chucked cozily. “Good day, Mrs. Simmons, Jemma. We must make haste if we’re to catch the tour.”

“Tour?” Jemma echoed under her mother’s greeting.

“Yes of course, my dear. How else did you suppose we would take in all the important exhibits? Why, do you realize there’s over ten acres of them?”

Entrusting the program to someone trained in the subject made sense to Jemma, and she offered no further protests. Until, that is, they were nearly two hours into their guided journey and had made it no further than the cutlery of the British Isles. Which was of course lovely, but with a whole world of arts and industry behind her, Jemma couldn’t help but feel a touch of ennui. She was looking listlessly at a set of patent locks, no longer able to feign interest, when a voice from behind her caught her attention. “Good day, Miss Simmons. Are you enjoying the Exhibition?”

She spun to meet the speaker and curtseyed politely. “Good day, Miss Morse. Indeed, I am enjoying myself. Hardware is so fascinating.”

From the mirth in Miss Morse’s eyes, Jemma suspected her dissembling had not been as successful as hoped. “Oh, indeed. I confess, however, I find much more to admire in the more, shall we say, exotic displays? The India exhibit, of course, is something to marvel over, but the selection from the Bahamas—”

Jemma sighed. “Yes, there were several items that begged attention there, but I’m afraid our guide”—she indicated the man now pontificating about gold-plated knives—“believed there were more worthy items to peruse. Perhaps I shall have the opportunity to return before I leave.”

“Or perhaps you might join my party?” Miss Morse indicated the small group of people a few steps away. Jemma recognized Mr. Coulson, who was attached to the American ambassador, and his daughter Daisy, but the grim woman in black carefully examining a trowel was unfamiliar to her.

“Mrs. May,” Miss Morse explained, following her gaze. “She’s Miss Coulson’s governess and companion; she was mine as well. I’m sure it would be quite proper if you wished to join us. Your mother couldn’t object with such chaperones.”

Jemma glanced back at the group listening intently to the pompous guide. He was now repeating himself for the fourth time, by her count. “I shall be delighted, if my mother allows it.”

Happily, Mrs. Simmons was pleased to be rid of Jemma’s slightly reproachful expression and granted permission immediately upon being introduced to Mrs. May. Under that stern gaze, both Jemma and her mother felt confident, nothing untoward would be allowed to happen. With nothing more than a warning to mind the time of their agreed-upon meeting at the pink glass fountain for tea, Mrs. Simmons and Mrs. Partridge returned their attention to the forks. Mr. Coulson offered her the arm not occupied by his daughter. “Miss Simmons, we were making for machinery. Is that agreeable to you?”

“Whatever you were already set upon; please don’t change on my account. I shall be satisfied with anything.” Anything, that was, that she couldn’t see in any high-end shop at the cost of much less than a pound. Thus they made their way out of British Manufactures and across the nave to the pounding, beating heart of the building, where the giant iron monsters of industry loomed over their heads. There were machines for making cotton and lace, for agricultural purposes, for cutting wood and molding metal and for making beer and cheese, nearly all of them operational and all of them interesting. Jemma watched, fascinated, as a machine spun out yards of fringes without a shuttle.

“But how does it work?” Miss Coulson asked, tipping her head to one side.

Mr. Coulson shrugged casually. “I’m afraid I don’t know. The mechanics are beyond my area of expertise.” Then, looking across the way, he raised his stick and his voice. “There’s someone who might be more knowledgeable. Mr. Fitz!”

The ladies followed his gaze, but could not determine which of the dark-suited men before them Mr. Coulson was indicating. “It’s no matter,” Miss Coulson said, holding down her father’s arm as he waved his stick more obviously. “There’s plenty to see instead.”

“No trouble. Mr. Fitz will be happy to explain.”

As they waited, Jemma strolled a few steps away to examine a steam-powered engine that, she believed, had something to do with china. Intrigued by the motion of the double pistons, she didn’t notice that the rest of the party had joined her until Miss Morse tucked her arm into Jemma’s. “You’ve been staring at this so long you must have divined all its secrets.”

“Well,” she said, “steam goes into a valve that slides back and forth, which moves a bit of metal called the piston up and down. I’m not yet certain where the steam comes from—”

“A port on the underside of the steam chamber,” a hesitant voice with a thick Scottish accent filled in. “The motion of the piston on the valve covers and uncovers it, which allows the steam to enter the passages. The steam chamber will be about there.”

Glancing quickly around the brim of her bonnet, Jemma sought the speaker. He was terribly bold, to interrupt a lady to whom he had not yet been introduced; her gratitude for the information did not excuse the incivility. Nor did the curious flutter his manner of speech precipitated in her belly. She couldn’t see him, though, until Miss Morse took a step forward to examine the machine more closely and Jemma met the bluest eyes she had ever seen. A shock as if from a Leyden jar darted through her, leaving tingling fingers and gooseflesh in its wake. Then, just as quickly, the new man dropped his gaze. “That is,” he mumbled, “if there’s any sense to it that’ll be how it works.”

“There, you see?” Mr. Coulson smiled benevolently. “What did I say? The man’s a technological genius. Miss Simmons, may I introduce Mr. Fitz to you? Mr. Fitz, this is Miss Simmons. Her father is MP for Sheffield Central.”

“How do you do,” she murmured, offering him her hand. He took it and bowed slightly, perfectly correctly if slightly formal, and repeated the greeting _sotto voce_. “And how do you come by this knowledge, Mr. Fitz?”

He pushed his hat back on his head somewhat shamefacedly. “Ah. It’s in my field—that is, not this one specifically, but—um, I invented that hydraulic press.”

Jemma gaped inwardly at the machine he indicated. They had already inspected and admired it for its form and function; privately, she had found it to be almost elegant, despite its coal-black mass. “I must congratulate you, sir! It is truly a wonder to behold. That is, I am not as knowledgeable as I should like to be, but it seems to me to be the best of those displayed here.”

“Obviously I’m biased,” he said, “but I agree. It has several features similar models do not—”

“Such as the water dispersing system to simultaneously maintain optimal operating temperature—”

“—and alleviate the effects of—”

“—the hazardous by-products of the process?” She smiled at his astonishment. “I noticed.”

He shook himself back to attention, though his eyes remained wide and surprised. “Then you’re the first to do so, Miss Simmons.”

A warm glow of pleasure brought a smile to her face. Praise was always welcome, but more so when it was about something other than her frocks and most so when it was accompanied by the implicit information that she had out-thought a good many better educated people. He offered a brief quirk of the lips in response.

Miss Morse’s eyes darted between them. “Mr. Fitz, I wonder, would it be possible for you to accompany us around this portion of the Exhibition? Mr. Coulson makes an admirable effort and Miss Simmons, as you see, is clever enough to guess, but it would be ever so much more educational to have someone who truly understands.”

Miss Coulson laughed. “Miss Morse must find us very dull; she keeps trying to add to our party. As the additions keep me from having to be witty, though, I mustn’t complain. Yes, please do join us.”

Looking between the two women, Mr. Fitz flushed—yes, actually, like a schoolgirl. He dropped his gaze to his shoes and cleared his throat twice. “Well, I—”

“Oh, do!” Miss Morse turned to Jemma. “Come, Miss Simmons, help us convince him.”

He glanced up at her through his substantial eyelashes. Not wishing to pressure the man, Jemma contented herself with smiling encouragingly. He ought not come if he felt uncomfortable, but she had more than a suspicion that they would all enjoy themselves better if he joined them. Mr. Fitz looked over his shoulder, giving Jemma a good view of a brick-red ear, and turned back to the expectant group. “I believe I can spare the time. The master prefers me not to kick my heels around him anyway.”

“Splendid,” she said.

The party moved around them, chattering merrily as they moved on to examine the machine that burned off loose threads without singeing the fabric. Mr. Fitz hesitated, then motioned for Jemma to move ahead of him and took up the rear a respectful distance away from her hooped skirt. And there he stayed through the entirety of their tour through the machinery in motion despite their best attempts to draw him into the group, rarely meeting anyone’s eyes and pitching his responses to their questions so lowly that they often had to ask him to repeat himself. Jemma wondered why. What she could hear told her he had nothing of which to be ashamed; he was well-spoken, knowledgeable, and slyly clever. Indeed, she thought him exceedingly impressive.

She could have stayed in Machinery all day, watching the movements and listening to him explain them, but sadly the rest of her group did not share her fascination—apart from Mr. Fitz, who cast a regretful glance at the portable fire annihilator as they moved into the western refreshment court. Miss Coulson flung herself into one of the wooden chairs dramatically. “Lord, I’m so hungry. I must have tea.”

“I’m afraid there isn’t any,” Mr. Fitz said. “Would you care for some soda? It’s the newest thing. Or there’s filtered water?”

“No tea!” The disappointed cry burst from more than one throat, but Jemma’s was the loudest. Her heart sunk to her boots. She had hoped that she would be able to convince her mother to take tea at one of the several refreshment courts in the building. If there was no tea available, she would never agree to stay and they would have to leave immediately, cutting Jemma’s day at the Exhibition short with no time to prepare her case for her longed-for season pass. That she could not accept. And yet, as she saw with a glance at her enameled watch, the time for their meeting was fast approaching. “I do apologize to break up the party, but I’m afraid I must rejoin my mother. It is nearly the time we agreed to meet. If someone could—”

“Certainly, Miss Simmons.” Mr. Coulson pursed his lips. “Let’s figure how best to do this. Perhaps I’ll take Miss Morse and Daisy for refreshments if Mr. Fitz doesn’t mind escorting you and Mrs. May?”

“Miss Simmons and I can manage,” Mrs. May said.

Mr. Fitz shook his head, stammering a little as he answered. “It’s perfectly safe, but I don’t mind—that is, it would be my pleasure. A favor, really, to see more than my little corner. I don’t mind.”

Miss Coulson sent him an amused glance before turning to her companion. “See, May? It would be a favor. You won’t do him out of a favor, will you?”

Jemma found it difficult to determine how Mrs. May felt about the situation but she did agree, and the three made their way to the pink glass fountain as arranged. In contrast to the bustling crowds around them, they moved in silence—it appeared to be Mrs. May’s natural state, and Mr. Fitz stared resolutely at the ground just in front of their feet, whatever he might say disappearing into the cracks between the boards. Jemma searched her mind for something, anything, to say. Impossible with all these wonders around her that she would be at a loss for conversation, but everything she could think of sounded childish and vapid. And that was the least thing she wanted to be before someone so clever. “Mr. Fitz.”

He looked at her curiously, managing to meet her eyes for longer than two seconds.

Not having any idea what she was going to say, she began breathlessly. “But china printing—it seems there must be far more useful applications for such a machine. Why do we not have more inventions for use in the medical field?”

As soon as it left her mouth, she rued it. The china printing machine was hours ago; how could she expect him to remember? But to her complete surprise he responded without pausing, his voice stronger than she had yet heard it. “What manner of inventions? Er, only, medicine is difficult to industrialize, being specific to each individual situation. I imagine.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Of course he was right. Foolish, foolish girl. “But—oh, removal of mortified limbs, say. That’s something that happens often enough, and an arm is an arm. Wouldn’t it be better to have a machine that could cut them off and remove human error?”

He looked a little green, gulping before making his response. “Does one use different blades for that kind of thing? I imagine a saw that cuts through bone would require different teeth—”

“Yes, but one hasn’t got time for that, has one? Not with the vital force leaking out at every moment.” She turned to face him more directly and found him white as a sheet; on his other side, Mrs. May looked disapproving. Blast, she thought against all standards of behavior, she had forgotten herself again. And she had been working so hard at her conversation, too. “I mean to say, so I understand. Of course I’ve no experience myself.”

But he flickered her a brief reassurance with the corner of his mouth, despite the ghastly pallor she had induced. “Nor have I. It’s a bit gruesome for my sensibilities. But, er, I’m glad someone finds it interesting. In case I should ever be in need of amputation.”

She pressed her lips together and nodded slightly, understanding what he offered—not condemnation of her interests, but apology for his own squeamishness. Unusual among the men of her acquaintance, who on the whole seemed to prefer her to merely parrot their dull conversation back to them. But perhaps she was seeing only what she wished. She scarcely knew him at all; how could she read all that in a glance? She had better keep watch of herself.

As they came upon the fountain, though, she felt a sudden panic. Her day at the Exhibition was nearly at a close and she was far from sated—in fact, her appetite was only whetted. There was still a whole world to see. She couldn’t let this end so truncated, not when she had only just begun.

“There you are, Jemma!” Her mother stood from her seat at the edge of the fountain and waved. “I was nearly beginning to despair of you. I understand there’s no tea in this building.”

“So we understand as well,” Mrs. May said. “Mrs. Simmons, I’d like to introduce Mr. Fitz to you. He is an exhibitor here and known to Mr. Coulson.”

“Happy to meet you.” Her mother was, of course, polite, but anything but happy to be introduced. “Jemma, we must go at once.”

“Of course, Mother. Thank you, Mrs. May, and thank Mr. Coulson.” But before following after her mother as an obedient daughter should, she gathered her skirts and hesitated, taking a deep breath for courage. “Mr. Fitz, I wonder, will you…are you here often? Only I should like to bring my father to see your press, and you would of course be better at explaining it than I should.”

“You don’t do too badly,” he said, drumming his fingers against his leg. “Yes, I am. I’m nearly always here.” He paused, opening and closing his mouth before finally speaking. “You’re coming back, then?”

This time she was the one to look at the ground. “I hope to. There’s still a great deal I should like to explore.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention last chapter that the title is a quotation from Charlotte Bronte upon her second visit to the Exhibition—sorry!

Jemma refrained from commenting on the Exhibition for several days afterwards, fully aware that her mother considered the experience over and done with. That didn’t mean she didn’t think about it, though—the very air in the Crystal Palace was made of excitement and discovery, and she had become accustomed to breathing it as easily as she had breathed oxygen her whole life. It was intolerable that she should never go back. Besides, she had nearly promised Mr. Fitz, hadn’t she? And a lady always kept her promises, even half ones. She just had to come up with a way to broach the subject.

Happily, the matter was taken entirely out of her hands. Four days after their excursion, Jemma received a note from Miss Coulson begging her company when she and Mrs. May made their return to the Exhibition two days hence.

“I’d be glad to have Jemma go,” her father said when Mrs. Simmons brought it before him. “Better buy her a season ticket; I expect any number of people will be making the Crystal Palace their drawing room for the duration.” He smoothed his waistcoat over his ample girth and twinkled in Jemma’s direction. “Perhaps you ought to have one too, Maria. I understand the Queen does.”

Her mother demurred, Jemma flew at her father and pressed a kiss to his bald head, and it was settled. All that remained was the interminable waiting. But at last that, too, was at an end and she was all but hopping into the open carriage with a respectful nod for Mrs. May and a wide smile for Miss Coulson. “Thank you for inviting me. I’ve been longing to return since the very moment I departed.”

“We rather thought you might,” Miss Coulson said. “Why, you didn’t even see Koh-i-Noor! You shall be a pariah if you don’t see that at least.” Lowering her voice, she leaned across the seat. “In confidence, however, I find it less than impressive. Far better is the lump of gold from Chile—my father says it’s over six hundred thousand carats!”

Jemma hadn’t even known such a thing existed and said as much, expressing her incredulity and dismay. “There are so many interesting objects; how shall we ever begin to know we haven’t missed something important?”

“Well, we won’t. But Mr. Fitz has agreed to go round with us, and I expect he’ll be aware of more than we will.”

“Oh?” She glanced casually away, feeling the sun rather warm on her face.

Miss Coulson’s amusement was strong enough to be felt through the tightly-woven straw of her bonnet. “Yes, he dined with us last night and seemed eager to offer his services. I will say he improve on closer acquaintance.”

“I didn’t find anything amiss on what small acquaintance we had,” she replied primly.

“Oh, didn’t you?” Miss Coulson dropped her chin and raised her eyebrows. Mischief was in every line of her face. “Then either he will devolve, or he will become even more intriguing. He certainly knows a great deal about the Exhibition.”

“Which is all I am interested in.”

Miss Coulson was obviously less than convinced, but turned the conversation expertly to the opera she had attended the evening before and, thankfully, let it be.

Upon meeting Mr. Fitz at the fountain, the party decided to concentrate their attention on the galleries devoted to other nations. “It isn’t,” he explained, “that the India display isn’t worthwhile, it’s just that it’s crowded this time of day. Must better to wait until the general public decides it wants its tea.” Sage advice, Jemma thought, marveling in the freedom to take one’s leisure. The Exhibition would be here for six months and she was going to have all that time to explore it. No need to rush from item to item; she could examine them all to her heart’s content. And so she did—every tassel and wheat sample, every inlaid table and silk skein. Why it was all so much more interesting than similar items in the other half of the building she couldn’t say, but she found herself lingering long after Mrs. May and Miss Coulson moved on. Mr. Fitz, out of politeness she was sure, hovered like a swarm of bees in her peripheral—more pleasant than a swarm of bees, however, and certainly more informative. He had a fact at his fingertips for nearly every item that caught her attention. After the sixth such tidbit, she turned to him with one eyebrow raised. “Have you memorized the entire catalogue, Mr. Fitz?”

“Er, no,” he said, scratching at his ear, “it’s hundreds of pages long. I’ve just gleaned the information here and there.”

“You must have a terribly good memory.”

“Yes, but it’s primarily boredom.”

“Boredom! Here!” She gestured around her incredulously.

He nodded, resolute. “Bored standing before my machine, trying to explain it in ways that nearly empty minds can understand. There’s only so many ways one can do so before it becomes tiresome.”

“I never find it tiresome to explain something that interests me, but I do understand the difficulties of conversation with less rigorous intelligences. Have you much experience with the Season, Mr. Fitz?”

“None at all,” he said, “it’s just winter and slightly warmer winter where I’m from.”

She laughed merrily and he grinned, gratified if slightly confused. Lucky man, to be so ignorant of social customs. Of course he had much more important things with which to occupy his time. She envied him that. Rather, she envied him the opportunity to allow himself to prioritize it. “Well then, you cannot know what I suffer.”

“Oh, I beg to differ. I’ve dealt with it enough in the last two weeks for a lifetime. Why must people be so dull, Miss Simmons?”

“They can’t help it,” she said gravely, drawing a laugh from him in her turn.

After sampling the wonders of Persia, Egypt, Turkey, Greece, Spain, Portugal, and Madeira, they made their way into a large room filled with musical instruments. Jemma, not being musically inclined, found them beautiful but nothing more. She wandered through the pianos and stringed instruments listening to Miss Coulson exclaim over their artistry until she came around a corner and saw something more exciting than anything yet: chemicals. Alums, sulphates, nitres, and acids, all lined up harmlessly, belying their powerful effects. She stood before them in a near trance, mind whirring with the possibilities contained in the glass jars and vials. What untold mysteries could find answers therein?

“Miss Simmons?”

She turned towards Mr. Fitz’s apologetic voice. “Oh! I apologize. I find these so fascinating, I didn’t notice…”

“It must be nice to have them to yourself. Powders and liquids don’t hold much interest for many.” Before she could respond, he gestured away. “Miss Coulson and Mrs. May wish to move on. Are you ready to do so?”

“Oh! Of course, certainly. Whatever they like.” But as she followed him into the next court she cast a regretful glance over her shoulder all the same. She had never been so close to such wonders. Turning back, she caught Mr. Fitz giving her an inexplicable look. Was he horrified? Impressed? Did he find her to be an unnatural woman? Was he even thinking of her at all? And why, she asked herself, was it anything to her what was going on behind those Prussian blue eyes?

The party made short work of French china—truthfully, Jemma thought, plates were plates the world over—and returned to the nave to stare at Mr. Fitz expectantly. He tugged at his earlobe. “We might see the Indian exhibit now. It shouldn’t be too crowded.”

“Oh no!” Jemma cried. The other three looked at her with varying degrees of surprise and she stumbled through her red-faced explanation. “That is, I’d rather save it. As long as I haven’t seen it, I know my mother will let me return…it’s silly. I’m sorry. It doesn’t matter.”

Pulling his pocket watch from his waistcoat, Mr. Fitz glanced at it and shook it twice before holding it up to his ear. “No, actually, my watch appears to be slow. This would be a rotten time to go.”

Miss Coulson dropped a deliberate wink before looping her arm through Jemma’s. “We’ll go to the United States and I’ll play guide, then. You can tell your mother I made you.” She cocked her head to one side. “Will you join us, Mr. Fitz? Allow me a chance to show off a bit?”

“Oh, certainly.” His gaze fell to the swept-clean boards. “Whatever you like.”

The United States exhibit took up the entire east end of the building, the second largest space granted a foreign power, and was guarded by a bald eagle, which hung from the ceiling gripping swaths of star-spangled bunting. “It makes one proud to be an American,” Miss Coulson said soberly. Not sure if she was serious, Jemma sought Mr. Fitz’s eye and found him already meeting hers to share the joke. They followed Miss Coulson around respectfully, expressing awe where reasonably possible and disassembling where they could not. Not until she went in search of some repeating firearms her father had told her were present did Jemma take a full breath, shaking her head in amusement.

Mr. Fitz came up beside her, ostensibly to view whatever clumsy wooden objects were on display in front of her. “Erm,” he said quietly—not enough to be improper, but enough not to be overheard—“I don’t mean to be insulting, but there’s a great deal of difference between our displays and theirs, isn’t there?”

“Ours?” she repeated, “I thought you Scots were as prickly as thistles about that sort of thing.”

“Only when it’s not to our benefit. Which is most of the time, but not now.”

“Ah, I see.” Her eyes swept over the whisk brooms, carved soap sculptures, and wigs before returning to what must surely be the twentieth pair of false teeth she had seen. “We mustn’t hold it against the States, though; after all they haven’t been a country for even a century. And, of course, false teeth are necessary. I only wish they were more…”

“Interesting?” he offered, while she finished with “ornamental.” With a smile to acknowledge his suggestion, she added, “I feel badly for people who have to make use of such artifices. I suppose they don’t have to be ornamental as long as they’re functional, but most of them are scarcely even that.”

“Surely better than none.”

“Yes. I can’t help but feel, however, not as good as they should be.”

He looked rather as if he intended to say something else, but before he could Miss Coulson came up between them. “I can’t find the revolvers, and I’m rather distressed looking at our offerings after viewing yours these last two weeks. What say you to a pause for refreshments? I seem to have developed a passion for soda water.”

“Better drink it filtered,” Jemma said, pushing aside a twinge of annoyance. “It’s more healthful.”

“That is _one_ benefit my country has over yours: our water is much cleaner.”

“You haven’t got two hundred years of people living in your cities, though.”

Mr. Fitz gestured for them to move ahead of him soberly. “There’s a model of a plan to alleviate that—without changing the arrangement of the drains, too. I’m not certain I believe it will work.”

Thus followed the most interesting tea conversation Jemma ever remembered having, ranging from sewer systems to the Black Death to the poisonous properties of popular cosmetics. Miss Coulson’s high spirits didn’t shy away from any topic, Mr. Fitz responded seriously to even the most ridiculous subject, and Mrs. May seemed content to let the young people discuss what they would. It was almost dizzying. Jemma gloried in it. In her usual conversations, her considerable intellect was used only to recall who had fallen out with whom; here, it was working as quickly as if it was powered by a double-piston mechanism. At one point, she heard herself explaining the connection between Anton van Leeuwenhoek’s ‘wretched beasties’ and the experiments she was performing with parakeets and tea. Only when she was describing the various consistencies of their droppings did she realize that she had stunned her companions into silence.

Miss Coulson’s dropped mouth was flattering, if uncouth, but Jemma worried more over Mr. Fitz’s furrowed brow. Oh, Lord, she had gone too far. How many times had her mother warned her that a lady displayed her intelligence only through the brightness of her gaze? Women with brains were threatening, frightening; men ran from them as politely as possible. She had forgotten in the excitement of the moment. Ducking her head, she pushed a loose strand of hair up under her bonnet. “Forgive me. It’s not, perhaps, appropriate tea conversation.”

“No,” Miss Coulson said, amused, “but vastly more interesting than anything I’ve heard in this country thus far. We’re more frank in America.”

She gave her a grateful smile, but didn’t take her gaze from Mr. Fitz. Miss Coulson would continue to know her no matter what she said. He, on the other hand—she would be very sorry to not meet him anymore.

He leaned forward, tapping one finger on the table just by her gloved hand. “How are you ensuring that no other contaminants enter their system? Through their food or such? Obviously you can’t use a vacuum, but—”

The relief was nearly overwhelming. “One can’t eliminate all the variables, of course, but I’ve got several different suppliers for their grain and I’m giving it to pairs of birds to serve as a control. Actually, that’s been fascinating as well—”

“No doubt,” Mrs. May cut in drily. “I’m afraid further discussion will have to wait until next week. It’s nearly closing time.”

“Next week?” Jemma asked, turning her head slightly when the question was echoed behind her.

Miss Coulson stood, gathering her reticule and parasol. “To be sure. May is determined I shall get every bit of education the Exhibition can provide me; do you think I intend to suffer it alone? Miss Simmons, at least, has a standing invitation.” Swinging the parasol casually, she directed her words towards Mr. Fitz but her tone to Jemma. “Mr. Fitz may join us as he likes, since he’s always here regardless.”

Jemma was unsure exactly what Miss Coulson was insinuating by that timbre, but it seemed wise to avoid looking at anyone. Despite her best efforts, she was still dreadful at keeping what she was thinking off her face. Better not let anyone see exactly how interested she was in his answer.

He cleared his throat. “Er, yes. I think that’s highly likely. That is, if you ladies don’t mind me trailing after you.”

And, as she was still looking at the ground and no one could see, Jemma allowed herself a small smile.


	3. Chapter 3

The next months were the happiest Jemma had ever known. Although she spent only a few hours at the Exhibition each week, they colored the rest of her life like an inkblot in a copybook stains through to the subsequent pages. Outwardly nothing had changed—she still paid calls and went to balls and made excruciating small talk with stupid men. Inwardly, however, it was if an entirely new world had opened before her. Had she said so to anyone else, they would have laughed dismissively—of course it had, it was a world exhibition after all—but in doing so would have neglected to understand what she meant. The literal world, for all its manifold interests, couldn’t hold a candle to the metaphorical world to which the Exhibition had opened her eyes. Her whole life had been lived according to dictums as unbreakable as gravity and as arbitrary as a coin toss, trapping her on a pedestal with no outlet for her talents or passions and no hope that anything would change. Inside the Crystal Palace tradition and rules held no sway; what counted was energy, ingenuity, and intelligence, and the only limitations on accomplishment were the boundaries of one’s own mind. In such a world even she could take her place.

Then, too, there was the added charm of her companions. Miss Coulson—who had become Daisy—was vivacious and charming, brightening Jemma’s day every time they met. Mrs. May maintained her silence, but Jemma knew beneath the stone-faced exterior beat the heart of a woman of strength and compassion. Miss Morse joined them several times as well, providing the sharp tang of pragmatic amusement to counter Jemma’s overwhelmed awe.

But most of all, there was Mr. Fitz.

His shyness of the first few weeks had turned to a warm kindness that only gave her a higher opinion of his character. Her opinions of his intelligence, on the other hand, had been entirely borne out; he was every bit the genius she had guessed upon their first meeting. For the first time in memory, Jemma found herself conversing with an intellectual equal—more, someone who seemed interested in conversing with _her_. The third week they met, he had shown her the vast array of chemicals displayed on the upper level with intelligent questions about each and truly listened to her answers. Since then scarcely a visit had passed without a lengthy discussion on some subject of scientific and general importance. Daisy grew weary of their debates, but Jemma could only contain it for so long. Around him, new ideas seemed to burst from her of their own volition. His company was invigorating, breathtaking, exciting; she felt herself to be _more_ when she was in it.

They never saw each other outside the Exhibition. She understood from Daisy that he was uneasy in society, preferring to work on his personal projects in the comfort of his rooms, and she could not ask him to brave a formal dinner at the Simmons house. Still, she could and did make the most of every precious second, seeking him out the very moment she could reasonably expect to distinguish him from the thousands of other young men filling the building. More often than not, her eyes lit upon him at the same instant he saw her, a grin stretching across his face as he waved a greeting. And then they would be off, exploring together the wide wonders the world presented to them.

One day in mid-summer, she reached him before Daisy and Mrs. May had pushed their way through the crowds. “Good day, Mr. Fitz!” she called as soon as she was within appropriate distance. “What have you to show us today?”

“Good day, Miss Simmons,” he said, raising his hat briefly. “You will never believe it, but I have found something we have never yet laid eyes upon.”

“What? And is it something I shall wish to lay eyes upon, or is it a tableau of stuffed rabbits attending Sunday School?”

“You shall love it,” he promised, eyes crinkling at the reminder of one of the most ridiculous but popular displays at the Exhibition. “Indeed, I’m not certain how we missed it before, only we must have been too enthralled by the deep section of the head from Guy’s.”

“ _I_ must have been,” she corrected, smiling in her turn. They both perfectly recalled the peculiar shade of green he had turned upon viewing that particular item.

He frowned, though the lightness lurking in his eyes belied it. “Can I help it if I find apparatus more interesting?”

“Oh no,” Daisy said as she and Mrs. May finally joined them. “Are we seeing more medical paraphernalia? Why do we never make return visits to the musical instruments?”

“We do!” she protested, and he followed her assertion with a quick “only last week! Anyway,” he added, “it isn’t medical paraphernalia, exactly. It’s more along the lines of the millions of pairs of false teeth displayed in your inferior exhibit.”

Daisy protested vehemently, but Jemma was confident that Mrs. May was hiding a sardonic smirk.

The three women trailed Mr. Fitz upstairs to the Upper North gallery, which displayed any number of curious items. Jemma couldn’t imagine what they had missed; she had a clear recollection of several globes meant to track the motions of the stars, achromatic microscopes, and an apparatus for making oxygen gas. What more could there be? Moving quickly through the glass chandeliers and decorations, all but dragging Daisy away from the musical instruments in the gallery overlooking the nave, and leading them to a table tucked away against the large glass windows, he stopped before a set of apparatus and tools.

Daisy leaned forward, peering at them through an imaginary lorgnette. “I’m not sure…”

“Oh!” Jemma had to keep herself from clutching at Mr. Fitz in her enthusiasm. “It’s a false arm. Well, it’s to mimic a false arm, but I must say it looks very badly done. Look, Mr. Fitz, there’s no way to lock it at the wrist joint. What use is that?”

He nodded quickly. “That’s what I thought when I saw them. The hand must just hang there limply and then, what, you use these little tongs in your left hand? There must be a better way.”

Reaching out to run a finger over the tongs, she frowned. “Certainly. These are operated by whatever strength one has in one’s non-dominant fingers. Although it’s true that one does gain strength, I doubt it would be enough to hold these closed if one was trying to grasp something heavy.”

“It wants a spring to adjust the necessary force.”

“Oh, yes! And perhaps something like—”

“A gripper?”

“Oh, shades of my ancestors.” Daisy sighed. “They’re going to cross-talk again. May, if I just go that direction for a few minutes, will you trust me not to make love to anyone? I’m not sure I can bear it again.” Mrs. May merely fixed her with a look and she sighed another time. “Very well, then. Carry on.”

Jemma and Mr. Fitz shared a quicksilver glance and looked away again, each slightly pink. What Daisy called “cross-talk” had quickly become a hallmark of their conversation, their sentences bleeding into each other like watercolors and, like watercolors, becoming something deeper in the overlap. More than once Jemma had gained something that she carried away and applied to her furtive experiments at home; from things he said here and there, she gathered that the same was true for him. It did tend to bar others from conversation, though. Even the quick-witted, silver-tongued Daisy struggled to break in. “No, indeed, it would be impolite to do so,” she said. “But surely you can see, Daisy, what little good this would do anyone. Why, the wrist alone! Look.” Holding out her arm, she pushed up her cuff and down her glove to display the small knob of her wrist.

Mrs. May cleared her throat.

Jemma glanced at her, confused for a moment, then sighed and made herself proper again. “Perhaps Mr. Fitz can show you, then. I believe as a gentleman he’s allowed to remove his glove, even?”

Mrs. May nodded, and Mr. Fitz followed her suggestion obediently, holding out his bare hand for her inspection. Instinctively she made to take it in both of hers. How else was she to show Daisy what she meant? Fortunately, she managed to arrest the motion before Mrs. May noticed, instead asking him to slowly manipulate the joint. “See how it moves? One requires that range of motion for any number of tasks, even if one is missing digits. Make a fist, sir?” He did so, turning the tendons beneath the translucent skin at his wrist to cords. Powerful hands befitting a man that worked with them, Jemma thought distractedly as she dug through her reticule for a pencil. It was difficult when she couldn’t pull her eyes away from him long enough to look properly. One found, she used it to point out the tendons running from his fingers up his arm. Daisy watched, enthralled, as Jemma pontificated and Mr. Fitz delicately positioned his hand, wrist, and fingers according to her directions. Not until he moved to roll up his cuff so they could better see did Mrs. May step in.

“Mr. Fitz.”

The three looked up guiltily.

“Walk with me to watches. Mr. Coulson is in need of a new one and I require your advice.”

As Mr. Fitz was especially eloquent on the subject of watches, having been raised at his clockmaker grandfather’s knee, he could hardly refuse. Mrs. May pinned Jemma and Daisy to the wall with one sidelong glance as she walked away, and they understood the silent message: make yourselves serene again. Daisy looked at Jemma, both eyebrows up. “My Lord, Jemma. There’s such a deal of difference between a young man’s hand and a father’s, isn’t there?”

A copybook example of understatement, Jemma thought, mentally comparing Mr. Fitz’s strength and firmness with her father’s soft, wrinkled fingers. Yes, a _great_ deal of difference.

Daisy whipped out her fan and directed the stream of air first to herself, then at Jemma. “Mr. Fitz isn’t even the pattern of man to catch my interest and I find myself flushed. How are you not every shade of red?”

Not the pattern to catch Daisy’s interest! Was he not the pattern to interest all women of sense? Jemma tossed her head, affronted on his behalf. “It was only a medical demonstration. You wouldn’t expect me to have tender feelings about the paper-mache model, would you?”

“Only a demonstration?” The fan slowed as Daisy eyed her friend skeptically. “Either you’re telling me an untruth—”

“A lady never tells a falsehood.”

“Or you ought to leave society and become a scientist directly, because it’s chemicals and minerals in your veins instead of blood.”

“Well,” Jemma said, “blood is—”

Closing her fan with a snap, Daisy rapped Jemma across the back of the knuckles. “Never mind that! Why must you be so didactic?”

“Facts are facts, Daisy.”

“Indeed. And it is a fact that you are an ice maiden and no living girl if you can nearly hold that hand in yours with no effect whatsoever.”

It had _not_ been nearly, not _nearly_ —Jemma knew, because the length of the pencil had been six inches more than she had wished. It was only a natural response, of course; she had done enough surreptitious reading to understand the body’s responses to certain stimuli. She was no ice maiden, whatever Daisy thought. But she also knew there were higher things than mere base passions, and she refused to fall sway to anything lower than her ideals. “But I had rather be a scientist than a wife. More, I had rather be myself than what I would need to become to snare a man.”

“And what should you need to be?” Daisy cried warmly. “Why, when you have so much to recommend you—”

Jemma laughed, patting her friend’s hand. “You’re very sweet, and a dear friend. Anything I have to recommend me is more than outweighed by my shocking lack of small talk and my terrible habit of speaking my own mind, no matter how much I try to curb it. No man would choose to tie himself to that his whole life.”

“A clever man would. Men of sense do not wish silly wives.”

“Perhaps. But a married woman is not allowed to do many things I wish to. Certainly she is not allowed to be independent. Thus, as I wish to be so, I shall never marry. I’m more than reconciled to that fact.” Her lips tightened into a smile. “One man’s beautiful hands change nothing.”

Daisy regarded her soberly. “If that’s what you want, Jemma, of course I hope you get it. I wish for you nothing more than you desire for yourself. Forgive me for teasing.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.” Jemma smiled warmly at her friend and gestured the way the rest of their party had gone. “As you listened to me on my subject, I would be remiss if I did not offer to hear whatever you wish on yours. Musical instruments?”

“Watches, I think. May will worry if we’re unchaperoned for too long.”

And so they joined Mr. Fitz and Mrs. May before the watch submerged entirely in water and still ticking, marveling again at the sight. Mr. Fitz looked up as she came up beside him, eyes alight with an idea. “If you were to design a false arm, I assume you would have a way to manipulate the joints. It would be a standard hinge at the elbow, but at the wrist you’d need something more mobile.”

“Perhaps like that of the hip?” she offered. “A ball in a socket. Only you’d need some way to lock it into position—”

But before he could respond, a fanfare echoed through the building, high and bright over the drone of the machines and the buzz of the crowd. Daisy raced to the railing to see down into the nave. “It’s your Queen,” she called to them, “she’s just come in the north entrance and she’s by the fountain now.”

Jemma and Mr. Fitz joined her and the other hundred people now pushing for a sight of their beloved monarch. Hundreds of feet away, Her Majesty was a mere speck; the small figures of the Princess Royal and the Prince of Wales were barely recognizable by her side. Even so, they watched until she and her retinue disappeared into the India exhibit which, Jemma knew from the papers, was her favorite.

“I suppose we won’t be visiting there today,” Mr. Fitz said wryly, and Jemma and Daisy laughed. Their intentional exclusion of the exhibit had become something of a joke after Jemma’s impassioned plea the second week; nearly every time they parted, one or the other of them pretended to remember Jemma still hadn’t seen Koh-i-Noor. Part of Jemma hoped she never would. As long as she hadn’t seen the largest diamond in the world, her experience of the Exhibition would remain incomplete. She would still have something left to discover.

“Well, then,” Daisy said, “shall we return to the watches? Make our way to the laces? Or, in honor of your monarch’s favorite portion of these British Isles, find and examine the vast examples of tartan?”

Mr. Fitz grimaced. “Not the tartans. You cannot imagine the pain it gives me to see them spread everywhere, all these new-fangled patterns with no history behind them.”

“What a pity,” Daisy said, “I was so looking forward to a new tartan frock.”

“No!” he exclaimed. “You have no right to wear tartan, you former colonial you. Not even Miss Simmons ought. Unless she weds a Scotsman, in which case she would wear his tartan and none of this ridiculous printed silk.”

He appeared too aggrieved to consider the implication of his words, but Daisy was not. She threw a glance at Jemma impossible to misunderstand, her mouth hovering somewhere between dismay and delight. Jemma hardly knew where to look. A London man would know better than to so casually speak of even theoretical marriage to a lady. But Mr. Fitz was not a London man and knew none of their ways—wasn’t that one of the things she liked most about him? Swallowing back her embarrassment, she attempted a light laugh. “Ah, but Mr. Fitz, doesn’t it require a great deal of technical skill to manufacture a machine to replicate the art of a tartan?”

“Some things should remain an art,” he muttered.

They ended in lace after all, a segment of manufactures in which none of them had much interest but had the benefit of being entirely open so they could wander alone to their hearts’ content. Jemma didn’t want to initiate a tete-a-tete with Daisy, nor could she see herself conversing quite as easily with Mr. Fitz after Daisy’s silent insinuations. Not that she—she only needed a bit of time to remind herself of her resolve. Anyway, he hadn’t meant anything by what he said. And even if he had, she was going to be a useful, independent spinster. That was the life she wanted.

So convincing was she that by tea she was entirely able to join Mr. Fitz in his project of designing an improved apparatus to meet the loss of a right hand, which was apparently what he had been pondering as they wandered through miles of lace. He had a good beginning, but needed her carefully gathered anatomical knowledge to truly mimic the capabilities of the arm and hand. They bent together over a sheet of rough paper, which he had taken to keeping in his pocket for situations such as this, and argued and scribbled and improved upon each other’s ideas until they were both pleased with the result. Used to this behavior, Mrs. May and Daisy contented themselves with practicing Daisy’s admittedly awful French, keeping to themselves apart from Mrs. May’s sharp glances to ensure Jemma was maintaining the appropriate distance between her body and his. Jemma was grateful for these looks. It was entirely too easy to drift much closer than modesty allowed. Perhaps, she thought with a wry smile, he had a magnet concealed under his waistcoat that was attracting the metal of her hoops.

As he stole the pencil from her hand for the fourth time, Daisy took a delicate bite of tea cake and looked across the table casually. “Jemma, vous êtes certain de belles mains d'un seul homme ne change rien?"

Jemma nearly dropped her cup, unable to stop herself from sneaking a glance at Mr. Fitz’s appropriately gloved hands. As if he knew she was watching, he stopped, mis-added the equation he was working, and grimaced before rubbing it out to try again. She couldn’t formulate a response. All her good work had vanished.

Disapproving, Mrs. May cleared her throat. Daisy sighed and switched languages. “My apologies; it’s rude of me to carry on conversation in a language we don’t all speak. Jemma, I’ve been thinking about our discussion earlier.” Ignoring Jemma’s horrified eye pleading, she continued ruthlessly. “It’s nonsense to say that married women haven’t got any independence here; you have a married queen who goes where she likes and does what she likes and no one, not even her husband, can say her nay. He doesn’t even get to have the same title she’s granted.”

Jemma let out what she hoped was a subtle sigh of relief. A query into political and hierarchical structure was manageable. “Her Majesty is more than a married woman. She’s the monarch. Her position gives her privileges we ordinary citizens aren’t granted.”

Refilling her coffee, Daisy poured in three ounces of cream. “That must be very difficult for her husband. His whole life he must have thought he would be the master of his home, only to end up a subject just like everyone else. I would be wild. What do you think, Mr. Fitz?”

He put his cup down hastily, eyes widened in dismay at being called upon. “Sorry, I wasn’t listening. What was the question?”

“About the Prince Consort,” Jemma began, but Daisy spoke quicker and more loudly.

“As a man, would you find it difficult to allow a wife her independence? Say she wanted to do something more than keep your house. Would you allow her?”

That was most decidedly not the question that had been asked and Jemma wondered that Mrs. May hadn’t reigned in her wayward charge. When she did not, Jemma tried to find a place to rest her gaze, her heart beating double-time in anticipation of his answer. Not that it mattered.

“Allow?” he repeated, “I don’t think there’s any allowing about it. She must do what she thinks is important. I’ve batched long enough; I think I can manage to keep house pretty well. And we might have a housemaid or something.”

“So you would not be opposed to your wife speaking her own mind or ordering her own life,” Daisy summarized, very carefully not looking at Jemma.

“On the contrary. I hope she does.” He smiled, leaning back in his chair. “I can’t imagine marrying someone who didn’t have lively interests and ideas of her own. What kind of man would I be, to love someone for one thing and force her to be something else according to my own selfish whims?”

“And so must the Prince Consort feel, I’m sure,” Jemma added quickly, feeling the conversation was taking a turn much too close to personal subjects for anyone’s good.

“Oh, indeed. I told you that you were being unfair to the male sex.” Daisy took another sip of coffee before adding, “Ici, au moins, est un homme avec qui vous pourriez être à la fois un scientifique et une épouse.”

Jemma looked into the depths of her teacup to hide her blush, too busy wondering how Daisy’s French had improved so rapidly to notice that Mr. Fitz had turned a rather startling shade of pink as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Daisy says is Google Translate's best approximation of the following:
> 
> Jemma, are you sure the beautiful hands of one man don’t change anything?
> 
> AND 
> 
> Here, at least, is a man with whom you could be both a scientist and a wife.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, ten gold stars to anyone who spots the Emma reference!


	4. Chapter 4

She managed, with some difficulty, to fold up and put away the flight of fancy Daisy’s impertinent questioning had awakened. Pleasant as it was to think that she wasn’t doomed to loneliness merely because she wanted to excel at something other than housewifery, well-bred ladies did not count their matrimonial chickens before they hatched. Nor did she desire any such chickens. Nor had Mr. Fitz given any indication that such chickens were even roosting! He could scarcely discuss a hypothetical wife with such equanimity had he an existent woman in mind, could he? There was not a doubt in her mind that he had merely answered Daisy with his signature blend of naïve guilelessness and utter honesty, and that was all it signified.

That decided, she resolutely ignored Daisy’s pointed glances and leading queries and continued to relate to Mr. Fitz precisely as she had done before such thoughts entered her head: with frank friendship and mutual admiration for the other’s personality and intellect. Such relations were entirely delightful; desiring anything else was the worst kind of greed.

And so it continued until the end of August, when Jemma received a note from Mrs. May cancelling their visit. Daisy was indisposed with a rather dreadful cold; they had hoped she would be well enough to keep their appointment but she had worsened rather than improved and Mrs. May did not think it advisable to leave the house. She apologized for the late notice and hoped Miss Simmons would not be too disappointed.

Miss Simmons was, in fact, extremely disappointed. In addition to the now-usual anticipation for the Exhibition itself, she had been anxious to speak to Mr. Fitz all week, having had an idea for the proposed anesthetic pistol they had conceived between them at their last meeting, and sharply regretted the delay. Not for the first time, she rued the conventions that kept her from seeing him whenever she liked. The few hours they had together were never enough to say and do all they wished. Even lately, as Mrs. May and Daisy inexplicably found much to occupy them several yards away, leaving Mr. Fitz to Jemma’s sole company, she found herself parting from him reluctantly, loath to bid farewell to the one infallibly interesting person she knew. Every new thing she learned about or from him made her wish to know more, to master him as surely as she was mastering the differences between Belgian and French lace. And she thought—that is, she didn’t know, but she believed the same to be true for him as well. They were such good companions. It was a pity they were of different sexes and thus prohibited from the intimacy that would be otherwise natural.

She was still despondent at breakfast the next morning, listlessly sipping her tea and pushing her cold ham about her plate, when her father casually announced his intention to stay down from the House. “I don’t suppose my daughter has anywhere to go that I might have the privilege of accompanying her?”

“I don’t think so, thank you, Papa.”

“No?” he asked. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to take in the sights of the Exhibition on my own.”

She stared at him a moment, uncomprehending, before clapping both hands over her mouth to hide her wide smile. “Truly?”

“I can’t bear to see my jewel so dull,” he said, “though I cannot see what she finds so entrancing after all these months.”

“But you will when you see it, Papa,” she promised, spirits shooting like a rocket.

Showing her father around the Exhibition, Jemma thought she couldn’t be any prouder if it was her own home. He was appropriately awed by the building itself, full of admiration for the fountain, grateful for the shade provided by the large canvas sails over the roof, astounded by the two trees growing at either end of the building, and utterly amazed by the vast array of machines and manufactures around him. Jemma watched with pleasure. And he hadn’t properly seen anything yet! Once he had come to the end of his effusive praise, he turned to her expectantly. “Well, darling, I had intended to see everything on this visit, but I see now that will be impossible. You’ll just have to show me your favorite things and I will be satisfied with that.”

She caught her breath at the magnitude of the task. Her favorite things in the whole building? How could she begin? Should she take him to the upper level and the display of medical instruments? The impressive mass of Chile’s gold boulder? The sphaero-annular condenser for condensing light on transparent objects? But her feet knew the answer before her mind had acquiesced, and they shortly found themselves standing before Mr. Fitz’s hydraulic press.

Her father adjusted his pince-nez. “My word. This is an impressive machine. How does it work, I wonder.”

By now, Jemma could have told him every detail, but she had not brought him here for that. “Let me find the inventor—I know him to speak to; he’ll be happy to explain.” Before she could locate Mr. Fitz, however, a tall, dark man with substantial side-whiskers inserted himself into the conversation.

“Yes, she is a beauty, isn’t she? My own.” He stuck out a hand for Mr. Simmons to shake, ignoring Jemma completely.

Her father looked to her confusedly, obviously at a loss as to how she had come to know this bounder. She gave a tiny shake of her head. “This one?” he asked, gesturing to it.

The man patted the machine—Mr. Fitz’s machine—paternally. “Yes, built her from the ground up.”

“How does it work, then?”

“Hydraulics, man, hydraulics! The wave of the future.”

“But what are hydraulics?” Mr. Simmons asked. His eyes had dropped to the half-lidded position that told Jemma he was being willfully obtuse. If there was one thing her father hated, it was lazy answers—she got that from him.

The man’s smile grew wider, more forced. “It’s to do with liquid. The machine has liquid inside it to make the pistons go.”

“Like a waterwheel?”

“Yes, of course.”

Jemma’s head snapped up. The workings of a hydraulic press were in no way similar to a waterwheel; she had already known this man was taking credit for something that didn’t belong to him, but she hadn’t realized that he was entirely ignorant of it as well. Was he even an exhibitor? Where was Mr. Fitz?

“Fancy that,” her father marveled, tongue firmly in cheek. “And where is the waterwheel located, exactly?”

“Just there.” The man pointed grandly to the head of the large piston. A retort was at the tip of her tongue and would have fallen off, had the movement of his arm not disclosed the miserable figure of Mr. Fitz lurking some distance away from his machine. Writ large across his face were frustration and dismay, mixed with a curiously large amount of helplessness. When he caught her gaze, however, all emotions were submerged under an overwhelming flood of embarrassment. She understood in a flash. This must be the “master” he had mentioned the first day and not at all since, the man who preferred he not loiter around the machine very often. And why? So he could take credit for Mr. Fitz’s work, of course! Well. That would certainly not do. She leaned forward, batting her eyelashes. “Oh, how curious!” she said at a pitch four tones above her own. “I had always understood that hydraulics were operated according to Pascal’s principle of fluid-pressure, but I must have misunderstood.”

The two men looked at her sharply. Mr. Fitz’s master laughed, not meaning it. “Goodness, aren’t you a clever girl? Of course, the principle of fluid-pressure. But people often have a hard time understanding such a high concept, so it’s better to make it simpler.” Turning away, he pointed to Fitz’s patented cooling system. “Like that, sir? That’s where the water comes from, and it falls on the piston so hard it pushes it down.”

Jemma pressed her lips together. Well, if he was going to insist on willful ignorance and stolen glory… “Papa, I know there was a man here who explained it quite clearly. If I could only find—” She pretended to just notice Mr. Fitz in the crowd. “There he is! Papa, do you see that handsome man over there in the grey suit? Motion him over. He can tell you how it works.”

With nothing more than a pair of raised eyebrows at her description, her blessed father did as she commanded and brought a reluctant Mr. Fitz over. Begging him to understand with her eyes, she said, “Sir, forgive me, I know you must be very busy, but would you be able to explain to my father how this machine works? I recall the explanation you provided me but only dimly. I feel certain you can make us understand.”

“Ah, yes,” he said, confused but trusting. “It operates according to Pascal’s principle of fluid-pressure, which states that the pressure exerted on an incompressible fluid is exerted equally in all directions. In this machine, we have two pistons—”

“Where?” she asked, though she knew perfectly.

He pointed them out with a stick. “Pressure is exerted by the smaller one, which goes through the liquid and puts pressure here on the large one…”

And he continued in that vein, helped at various points by her seemingly insightful questions, until he had gone over every inch of the machine and his master had slunk away into the growing crowd, egg all over his face. Jemma felt as though she would burst with pride. Behind her she could hear impressed murmurs, whispered compliments; she catalogued and remembered each one to tell him later. All of them were deserved. He was brilliant, as she had always known; eloquent, as she had always guessed; he cut a fine figure and when he spoke his passion for the project made his whole face glow. For the first time, she saw him present himself as she knew him to be, and it was glorious.

“Incredible,” her father said when the presentation was done. “Ingenious, really. How do you come to know so much about it?”

Mr. Fitz glanced at her before answering. What was he waiting for, she wondered, giving him a smile and a nod. Swallowing, he reached a hand to the back of his neck. “Well, sir, I invented it.”

“Ah!” Her father’s cry of understanding was echoed in the crowd behind him. “I thought the other gentleman—”

“He owns it. It’s his, legally. But I invented it for his factory.”

“That’s a pity. He obviously knows nothing about it.”

Mr. Fitz quirked a smile. “No, sir.”

Seeing that there was nothing more to be learned, the crowd started to drift away, leaving Jemma and her father alone with Mr. Fitz. Once she was certain no one was left to pick up on the ruse, she let her smile out full force. “Mr. Fitz, that was the most marvelous thing I’ve seen here in all my many visits.”

The familiar flush crept over his face, but he shrugged it off with a pleased smirk. “Are you back to yourself, then? I couldn’t hardly recognize you with your voice like that—thought I’d conjured your face on some other girl since I wanted to speak to you so much.”

“Come now!”

“Tell me, sir,” he mocked, pitching his voice at prima donna levels, “what exactly is the pressure per square inch—”

“I did not sound like that!”

“—as though you couldn’t do the calculation in your head faster than I.”

“Well,” she said, unable to take offence at the imitation when it was wrapped in such a compliment. “I couldn’t let that odious man get away with your proper credit. How do you stand it, Mr. Fitz?”

“I enjoy eating.”

His eyes had dimmed a little, and she was sorry for asking so flippantly. Perhaps if she treated it lightly, they could regain their easy footing. “Yes, I’m aware. How many slices of bread-and-butter was it last week?”

“Ahem.”

Jemma started, nearly having forgotten that her father was there. “Oh! My manners, Mama would kill me. Papa, may I introduce Mr. Fitz? Mr. Fitz, this is my father.”

Her father’s brows beetled, and he did not acknowledge Mr. Fitz’s polite if somewhat shaky greeting. “And am I correct to assume that the pair of you are far better acquaintances than merely ‘knowing to speak to’?”

Mr. Fitz looked to her for help, incredibly guilty, and she stepped before him, head high. “Yes, Papa, Mr. Fitz is a friend. Mr. Coulson introduced us the first week I came to the Exhibition and Mrs. May invited him to be our guide in the weeks since then. You can see how clever he is; his company has been a boon. I’m sure we would be utterly lost without his assistance.”

“No, no,” he protested, “The ladies would be fine without me. It’s been a pleasure to go about with them.”

“Yes,” her father said, “I’m sure it has.”

Wisely, Mr. Fitz made no response to that potent comment, nor did Jemma, who had made no preparation for this meeting to take this course. She had intended to make the introductions first, relying on Mr. Fitz’s natural diffidence to make a good impression before their usual habits of conversation, which she knew would alarm her father, asserted themselves. Of course there was nothing to be alarmed about, but her father did tend to protect her with the same care that was lavished upon the Crown Jewels; she had rather suspected that he would initially view Mr. Fitz as a threat. To all appearances, she had not been incorrect. Unfortunately, she had no rote speeches to soothe his worry. Nor, if she was to be entirely honest, did she feel as though her father’s feelings were her foremost concern at present. Far more important was ensuring that Mr. Fitz was not so frightened that he bolted. She moved a step closer to her friend so that the hem of her skirt brushed over his boot and tried to send encouraging vibrations his way. “My father is only at the Exhibition for one day, Mr. Fitz, and asked me to show him my favorite exhibits.”

“Ah.” Visibly mustering his courage, Mr. Fitz turned to Mr. Simmons. “You’ll have been to the upper level to see the medical apparatus, then? Have you viewed the sphaero-annular condenser yet?”

“No. We came directly to your machine.”

Something sparked deep in Mr. Fitz’s eyes, but his voice was as serene as a lake. “Miss Simmons, and after you spent a good quarter-hour regaling Miss Coulson and me with the myriad applications such technology would have were it only a little better? You do my machine too much credit.”

“I think not,” she said, though a small smile teased the corner of her mouth at the memory to which he alluded. “Your machine is already perfect and therefore superior.”

“Far from perfect, as you have reminded me. Don’t think I am going to ignore your suggestions about a better liquid conduit.”

“Why, that was your idea, not mine! I may have expertise in some areas, but not this. There is no need for any lecture from me, though I am very glad to have heard yours.”

“As am I.”

They both turned to Mr. Simmons in surprise, but he ignored their rounded eyes and mouths, casually examining another nearby press. “Perhaps Mr. Fitz would care to join us, Jemma? Since his company improves the experience so. But we’re still to see only your favorite things, mind.”

She sent a quick questioning glance Mr. Fitz’s direction and he nodded, his face going slack in relief. “I would enjoy that, sir.”

Tucking her hand into the crook of her father’s elbow, Jemma drew on long years of practice and managed to keep her smile to a maidenly rosebud. “As for the exhibits, Mr. Fitz and I have exactly the same favorite things. We shall be delighted to show them all to their best advantage.”

“Except the bits of head,” he said, coming up beside them. “I’m afraid I cannot stomach that again.”

They gave the anatomical specimens a wide berth, but every other item that had captured their attention over the past four months was duly displayed, inspected and admired. Jemma had not realized that her favorite exhibits were without exception those she had enjoyed with Mr. Fitz, whether it was laughing at their ridiculousness or being inspired by their possibilities. They examined the centrifuge and told her father of their plans for a faster one that could separate blood particles; viewed the carriage with a brake that worked from inside the compartment and had inspired them to imagine one that could be operated from inside as well; reviewed the chronometers and telescopes that had made evident their mutual fascination with the cosmos; gently mocked the model of St. Paul’s built from cardboard and laughed themselves nearly to fits at the stuffed animals. With each display Mr. Simmons’s glower lessened and Mr. Fitz’s confidence grew. Jemma watched it happen benevolently, at once calmly satisfied and deeply pleased. She had known they would like each other if they were only given a chance. Glad her theory had borne fruit, she did not stop to question why it was so important that her father approve of her friend.

All in all, Jemma considered it one of the best visits she had made to the Crystal Palace. Everything seemed new again through her father’s eyes, reminding her of what she had so loved about the Exhibition in the beginning. Her one regret was that she had no opportunity to speak to Mr. Fitz in private. Her father was very patient through the inevitable cross-talk, but she did not wish to try his good humor with the detailed theories she had developed during the week. Nor was he willing to stop for tea, keeping her from adding to the designs. Next week, she resigned herself, and tried to remain content with what she had, which was certainly better than what she had expected.

The three of them were interrupted in their wanderings around the goods from Sheffield as they argued about the patent process—Jemma maintained, and Mr. Fitz backed her, that it was ridiculous that a married woman couldn’t have a patent in her own name when an unmarried woman could—by the tolling of a bell. Jemma looked up, startled.

“That means it’s a quarter ‘til six,” Mr. Fitz explained. “It’s to warn the visitors we’ll be closing shortly.”

Mr. Simmons nodded, all business. “Then I suppose we must go to the Indian exhibit? Even if it is not your favorite, I must see Koh-i-Noor or be a laughingstock in the House.”

“Oh, but we’ve never—”

“Miss Simmons prefers—”

“Stop,” Mr. Simmons said, holding up one hand like one of Peel’s special forces. “I cannot listen to you do that again. I must see the diamond, and I cannot leave you alone.”

“We’re hardly _alone_ ,” Jemma protested, but a sharp glance from her father cut the argument off in her throat. “But Papa, I have been saving the diamond for the very last.”

“And now it is,” he said firmly.

There was no arguing with him when he was like that, so Jemma bowed her head and followed meekly, fortified only by Mr. Fitz’s apologetic look. She had not expected her friend to follow them, as he had already seen the famed jewel, but was grateful for his company nonetheless. If she was going to see it, it was only proper that he be by her side, as he had been the whole time.

As they passed the pink fountain, however, she saw her salvation. “Look, Papa, Mrs. Partridge! Surely she could serve as chaperone while you view Koh-i-Noor?”

He stopped, considering. “Well. Perhaps. I could—”

“You had better hurry, sir,” Mr. Fitz said. “You wouldn’t want to miss your opportunity. I can safely see Miss Simmons from here to there.”

Gauging the distance before checking his watch, her father came to a decision and nodded once before hurrying into the large Indian bay. Jemma surveyed Mr. Fitz, one eyebrow up. “I hadn’t expected you to be so devious, Mr. Fitz.”

“I feel I am many things today that I am not usually,” he said.

“Such as?”

“Mm.” His hand rose to his ear in what she knew was his embarrassed gesture. “Respected, maybe. Acknowledged. Confident.”

“You ought to be all those things always, Mr. Fitz. You are…” She paused, trying to think of the right word. “Extraordinary.”

He shook his head firmly. “No, you are, Miss Simmons. Today has only reminded me of that.”

“Perhaps.” She smiled, grateful that her bonnet covered most of the flush she felt rising up the back of her neck. “That doesn’t make what I said false, though. You are extraordinary. I shall always believe that.”

He dropped his gaze to the floorboards, scuffing at them with the toe of his boot. “Well. Erm. It means…it means a great deal.” And without looking up, he gestured towards the fountain. As they walked slowly, almost reluctantly, Jemma wondered not for the first time at the social dictum which forbade a young man from offering his arm when it would be expected of an older one. Surely, she thought, a lady was in more danger from a crowd than a companion? With Mr. Fitz, she would be perfectly safe.

Halfway there he started conversation again, slowing his pace to that of a snail. “I was surprised to see you today. Glad, of course—”

“Of course.”

“—but surprised.”

“I was surprised and glad to come,” she said, imbuing the words with every warm feeling that threatened to come coursing out of her. Meeting his eyes seemed too dangerous; she could not quite forget that they were, for all intents and purposes, entirely alone. Still, she could not help but add, “I have longed to speak with you.”

His swallow was audible. “About what, Miss Simmons?”

“Anything.” Instantly, she was as scarlet as if she had been dropped in a vat of the new chemical dyes, horrified at her boldness and furious at her traitorous tongue. The anesthetic pistols, that’s what she intended to say—the pistols were an entirely acceptable topic of discussion for two friends. _Anything_ , what manner of answer was that? A true one, perhaps, but also one that put them both into an extremely awkward position. The only thing she could reasonably do now was feign ignorance of the implications of her statement. She didn’t think she could manage the light laugh to feign a jest.

His step stuttered, but thankfully he, too, seemed too stricken by her response to react in anyway other than to ignore it. “I had been wanting to speak to you, too. I had some thoughts about the anesthetic pistols I crave your opinion on.”

She sighed in relief, not allowing herself to admit to the regret that turned the exhale slightly melancholic. “As do I. However, I fear there is no time now. Mrs. Partridge will hardly stand for such conversation.”

“I wish,” he said, “I wish there was a way…”

“As do I,” she said again.

And then they were upon Mrs. Partridge, who, as Jemma had foreseen, dominated the conversation so dramatically that neither she nor Mr. Fitz could contribute more than a murmured assent until Mr. Simmons rejoined their party, full of praises for the enormous diamond and the other sumptuous items on display from Britain’s most exotic colony. “I know my daughter has some foolish reason to refuse to see it,” he said, “but I wonder that you do not place it higher on your list, Mr. Fitz. Surely such a sight has not been more easily viewed anywhere!”

“You may be correct, sir. However, I find myself more drawn to those objects that display the skill and intelligence of man.” His eyes sought hers over the high feathers of Mrs. Partridge’s hat. “There is nothing more wonderful than a fine mind at work in the world—though, I admit, such a sight is indeed rare.”

Jemma met his gaze squarely for a minute, hearing the meaning layered under his innocent words: yes, she told him, yes, you are a fine mind at work in the world. It is not as rare as you say. Then, slowly, she became aware of another hidden strata, one which she did not know how to interpret but stole her breath all the same. There was a secret there. She did not know if he meant her to read it—she did not know if he even knew it was about to be laid bare—and she dropped her eyes in confusion, feeling her heartbeat quicken as if she had finished a footrace.

Her father’s voice seemed to come from a great distance. “Perhaps you’re right, Mr. Fitz. Well well, it’s been a fascinating day, and I thank you, sir, for your company. Mrs. Partridge, shall I give Mrs. Simmons your regards?”

Though the blood beat in her head, making her thoughts muzzy, long years of practice allowed her to make the proper farewells without any horrible gaffes, and she and her father were shortly on their way to their carriage. As they walked, her father chattered merrily of all they had seen and done, not requiring her contribution at all. Jemma was grateful. She was too occupied with the feelings warring in her chest: the desire to learn Mr. Fitz’s secret and the fear that she had inadvertently displayed one of her own.

“I like your friend Mr. Fitz,” her father said when they were safely settled in the carriage. “Clever, well-mannered, humble—it’s a pity that machine isn’t his. I suppose he’ll have others, though. He’s the sort of young man who will go far in the world.”

And Jemma, attention focused on her subtly wringing hands, agreed.


	5. Chapter 5

After her visit to the Exhibition with her father, Jemma became aware of the inexorable march of time. She had always known that the Exhibition was to end in early October; she simply had not realized how quickly the months from May to October would hasten onward. Soon the Crystal Palace with all its glories would be broken up and scattered to the winds, leaving her to return to her dreary life with nothing more than the memories of what had been hers for a few short months. Not even the stereographic slides she had purchased would ease the loss. Indeed, there was nothing she could do to soothe her pain. All that was left was to take full advantage of the time that remained. At least, she comforted herself, there were still four weeks and four visits to enjoy.

Miss Morse joined them for their next visit, a fact which pleased Jemma exceedingly—not only did she enjoy the other woman’s company, but she felt far more serene about devoting tea time to invention when it did not doom Daisy to French practice. Clutching her reticule with its precious papers, Jemma reviewed her course of action for the day: the delayed conversation about the anesthetic pistols, a report on the mechanized feeders he had made for her parakeet experiments, discussion of anything that happened to occur to them during their visit, and absolutely no discussion of her continued musings on whatever that look had been in his eyes last week. As she had considered it in both her waking and non-waking hours, it had become only more confusing. Jemma was a scientist and she didn’t like unexplained mysteries, but this one, she felt, was unlikely to find a solution without direct observation. And that she did not dare.

Indeed, once they had joined him at the fountain as always, she found herself strangely shy, despite the fact that she had so much to discuss and had wanted to see him all week. Daisy could and did tease him about the conquest he had made of Jemma’s father, but she could only manage a smile; Miss Morse could ask his opinion on Colt’s repeating rifles, but Jemma could only nod when he offered her the opportunity to elaborate upon his answer, though their previous discussions meant she had plenty to say. Somehow, his every action seemed to paralyze her. And when he caught her eye around their friends, or tried to start a conversation—well, she may as well have been one of those empty-headed misses they so despised for all the response she was able to give. She berated herself as she trailed behind the rest of her party, glad for Mrs. May’s stoic silence. Why could she not treat him as she always had? They were friends, were they not? One look could not change everything so dramatically.

After finishing their tour through arms—Miss Morse’s favorite class, and Jemma suspected Mrs. May’s as well—the party stopped in unison to check the time. “We’ve time for one more before tea,” Daisy said gleefully, “and as we’ve done Miss Morse’s favorite and we’re always doing Miss Simmons’s, I demand satisfaction.”

Mr. Fitz put his watch slowly in his pocket. She wasn’t looking at him, but she could tell from his voice how reluctant he was to speak. “I’m afraid I, er, I haven’t got time for another one.”

“Have you something to do?” Daisy shrugged easily. “Very well, we can have tea early. Only you all must give me a solemn promise that we shall do them first thing next week.”

He shook his head. “I would, but I can’t even stay for tea—I have to leave now, at this very moment almost.”

“But where are you going?”

“Euston Station.”

“Euston Station,” Miss Morse repeated, “why, Mr. Fitz, that’s all the way—”

He cut her off, shifting from foot to foot. “I’ve timed it, I’ve enough time to get there, but I have to leave within the next five minutes—I shouldn’t even be here, really, but I had to come.” His gaze darted between the four women in front of him and came to rest on Jemma. “I had to say goodbye.”

With that word, the bustle of the Exhibition, the dismayed cries of her companions, the bright light streaming through the canvas-covered glass and the very boards under her feet all dropped away, leaving her in a world in which nothing existed but the blue of his eyes and a terrible emptiness in her chest. “Goodbye,” she echoed, perfectly aware she sounded forlorn and perfectly incapable of doing anything about it. “Where are you—”

“Back home.”

“To Scotland.”

“Yes.”

“But you’ll return, surely?”

Stuffing his hands in his trouser pockets, he pressed his lips together and glanced at the floor before answering: “I hope so. But I don’t expect to.”

Jemma was dimly aware of Daisy pushing past her to proclaim her disappointment, but it may have been the wind blowing by for all she knew. She seemed incapable of movement or action; all her prodigious energy was occupied making sense of what he had said. Which was, of course, ridiculous, as nothing could be clearer: he was going back to Scotland and didn’t expect to return. It was not that that was proving difficult. It was what such information signified: he was leaving, and the Exhibition was ending, and their warm companionship was heretofore at an end. And she had wasted this whole last day in silence because of a half-seen look of no determinate meaning. She could have wept. She rather thought she _would_ weep once she could do so in privacy. But now, as he had finished farewelling her companions and was coming toward her stiffly and soberly, she could not allow herself that luxury.

“It has been,” he said, “the greatest privilege of my life to know you, Miss Simmons. I shall always be grateful for the chance.”

“And I, sir.” But no, such words were too cold and unfeeling; they could not express what was in her heart. Instead, she extended her hand to bridge the space between them. As if he had only been waiting for the opportunity, he surged forward and took it between both of his, clasping her small hand so warmly that she felt the heat radiating through her whole body. She couldn’t look away from their entwined hands, even to speak. “You will remember, won’t you—”

“Always.”

“Yes, but what I told you when last we met?”

His fingers tightened around hers. “If you will always remember that I think the same.”

As though she were likely to forget that the most remarkable person she had ever known thought she was extraordinary! She laughed, hoping no one else could hear the sheen of dampness. “How can I help it?”

There seemed to be nothing else to say—at least, nothing else that could be said within the bounds of propriety. Had she not such a tight reign upon her tongue, such a strong mental brake upon her galloping passions, there was much she might have said: how he had opened the world to her, how he had granted her a confidence in the worth of her own work entirely unknown before, how meeting him had been the best part of every week and the lack of him would be a sore loss. But she was too well-bred to speak, had she even been able to find the words.

Mrs. May cleared her throat. “It’s been five minutes, Mr. Fitz. You had better depart if you don’t want to miss your train.”

He blinked several times as if waking up and let go her hand, leaving her suddenly bereft. “Yes, I have to—I’m sorry. Goodbye, ladies.” And with that, he turned and walked into the crowd, instantly swallowed up by the heartless throng. Jemma stood blindly watching the space where he had been. Already she felt as though she had lost her right hand.

Her right hand!

She gasped, interrupting her companions’ callous discussion of whether to see another class or go straight for tea to draw their concerned looks. “The anesthetic pistols! I’ve got drawings—he must have them—I can’t do it without him, he has to have all the—” She gripped her reticule tightly, eyes begging Mrs. May to understand.

“Go,” the older woman said, “we’ll follow after.”

She needed no more permission. Hastening as quickly as her skirts would allow, she fought her way through the crowds, scanning every figure for his familiar one, hoping she hadn’t left it too long again. She hurried back through arms, careened through watches, and nearly came to smash on the stairs, where she would have knocked the people below her down like ninepins if a roughly-dressed laborer hadn’t flung an arm out to catch her. “Oy, miss!” he said loudly, “watch where you’re charging like a locomotive.”

Any other time she would have taken scripted offence at being spoken to in such a way. This time, however, the out-of-place noise caused the immediate crowd to turn and look, revealing as they did the one person in all the world Jemma wanted to see. His eyes lit upon her and set off a spark, transforming his whole air from one of dejection to something bright and glad. She could not move for the shine of him, which seemed to shed light into the deepest corners of her own soul.

He fought his way up the wrong side of the staircase and took her hand to draw her down. “You can’t stay here, Miss Simmons, you’re like a dam in the stream. Why do women wear such wide skirts?”

“Because we hope men will be so inconvenienced they’ll allow us to wear trousers,” she said, once again enveloped by his particular warmth. “Mr. Fitz, don’t let me make you late, but I had to—”

“I’ll catch another train if necessary—”

“—it’s just I’ve got drawings for our projects—”

“—I want to be available for anything you want of me—”

“—what am I to do with them by myself? You ought to—”

“—take them, yes, I’ll see what I can do—”

“—it’s just some scribblings, it’s probably nothing—”

“—you haven’t contributed _nothing_ in your whole life—”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” she said as they landed at the bottom of the stairs, and laughed a little. She couldn’t help it.

“Well, heaven forbid. If I don’t make sense—”

“ _You_ make sense. That sentence was nonsensical.” Reluctantly, she loosened her hand from his grasp. Whatever he said, she didn’t want to be responsible for holding him back. She opened her reticule and pulled out the sheaf of papers to thrust at him. “Here they are. You can do what you like with them, and I’m not even sure they’ll matter in the end, but—”

“If they come from your mind, Miss Simmons, I’m sure that they will be more than helpful.” He shoved them in his pocket without looking at them. “I wish I had time—I’ve got so much to say—”

“But there’s no time, I know.” She nodded. “I’m sorry to keep you. And now you must go; you’ve missed five if not six trains already.”

“I—“ He appeared to waver before her, unsure whether to stay or obey. “Oh, curse everything,” he said finally, “I have to go. God bless you, Miss Simmons!”

And then he was gone and she was left with a burning brand on the back of her hand where his lips had met it.

When the others caught up to her, she had, she thought, managed to regain her composure. Thus it was rather disconcerting when Daisy put her arm through Jemma’s and said, “am I to be the first to congratulate you?”

“Congratulate me for what?” she said confusedly, and Daisy laughed.

“True, it’s he who is to be congratulated, I believe? And you are given best wishes. But truly, Jemma”—her friend sobered, a sight which was but rarely glimpsed—“I rather think you won’t need best wishes. I have never seen two people so well matched.”

“Oh, Daisy.” Jemma brought her gloved hands to her face, hoping to hide the redness in her cheeks. “It isn’t—I mean, I never dreamt—”

Miss Morse raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t? What have you been doing all this time, then?”

“I haven’t been doing anything. _We_ haven’t been doing anything.”

“Oh, no,” Daisy said seriously, “only courting madly. We’ve been expecting a proposal these last three weeks at least.”

Her friends were Americans. Things were different there. She had to hope they had been misreading her behavior or she was no better than a common tart. Because, of course, she had never meant to—that hadn’t been—her blush grew stronger and she sought out Mrs. May’s steady reassurance. Mrs. May would tell her the truth.

“Girls, that’s enough.”

Mrs. May’s voice brooked no disagreement, and her once-and-current charges fell instantly silent. Fixing them with a glare, Mrs. May turned to Jemma. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. Don’t let them bother you.”

Jemma attempted a smile and failed miserably.

“But I think we’ve had enough of the Exhibition for today. Come to the embassy for tea, Miss Simmons. We’ll do musical instruments next week.”

Over tea, Jemma began to revive. Daisy and Miss Morse kept up a lively conversation on subjects as far removed from the Crystal Palace as possible, and anything looks better over a crumpet dripping with unladylike amounts of butter. She was still sorry, of course, but shortly it would be nothing more than a pleasant memory: once she had known an extraordinary man, and he had thought she was extraordinary too. Perhaps even by their next visit!

As the course of the next week proved, however, tea was a magical panacea. Far from softening to a pleasant memory, thoughts of him refused to be content with their previously dedicated quiet moments between dances or before drifting to sleep and began invading her every waking second. It seemed as though she could not perform an experiment without wishing for his opinion, could not hear a joke without imagining the curious face he made when he was trying to feign amusement, could not speak with a man without comparing him to her far superior friend. Once, she heard someone with a Glaswegian brogue in the street and turned to speak though it didn’t sound a thing like him. Once she thought she saw him at the opera—though Mr. Fitz at the opera was a thing too ridiculous to contemplate—and nearly exposed herself to comment by chasing after him. In the dark silence of her bedroom as the tears trickled into her pillow, she allowed that perhaps, somehow, she had in spite of herself become more warmly attached to Mr. Fitz than she had yet realized. Otherwise, why should she feel so bereft?

In the cold light of day, she argued back that all she had wanted was to do science, and while he had encouraged her in that pursuit her love for it had nothing to do with him. Therefore, despite the battered sensation that rested in her chest, she looked forward to the next week’s visit to the Exhibition. That had not changed with Mr. Fitz’s absence, after all; it was still the same palace of wonder it had been before she even knew there was such a person as a brilliant, kind, often grumpy engineer anywhere in the world. Surely she could force her wayward passion to submit to her not-inconsiderate intelligence and enjoy the sights on their own merits with or without anyone else’s presence?

She could, she found. But even the sumptuous furs and engraved malachite vases that towered above her head—fairly new exhibits due to ice in the Baltic Sea—could not hold her attention for even as long as Daisy wished to view them. The other exhibits, which they had seen more times than Jemma could count, offered no interest whatsoever. From being an invitation to wonder, the Exhibition had become stale and flat.

“I wondered if this day would ever come,” Daisy said, walking quickly to keep pace with Jemma as they sped through the Sculpture Gallery. “I’ve sucked the Exhibition dry weeks ago, but you and Mr. Fitz seemed content to wander through indefinitely.”

“Sculpture has never been a passion of mine, Daisy, as you well know.”

“Yes, but.” Daisy dodged around another group and continued her sentence without pause. “You still examine each of them minutely. You can even tell the difference between the dozens of embarrassing pairs of false teeth when I _know_ you and Mr. Fitz mocked them the first time you ever saw them. Are you ill today?”

Driving the point of her parasol into a crack in the floorboards, Jemma imitated it with her gaze. She recalled perfectly the first time they had laughed together; it was one of the thousands of moments that the last week had revealed to be engraved upon her memory. “No, I am quite well, thank you. Shall we take in the Austrian exhibit?”

“No, there’s no reason to do so now there’s no more Eau de Cologne in the fountain.”

“Then we may continue as before?”

Daisy reached out to clasp her wrist, arresting Jemma’s attempted movement. “Jemma, we’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Yes, of course.” Looking at Daisy’s wide, worried eyes, she relented. “Of _course_ we’re friends.”

“If you had something to confide, you would feel you could, wouldn’t you?”

“Certainly,” she said, not having anything she wanted to confide.

“Or if,” Daisy pressed, “you would rather I avoid certain subjects…if there was something I was saying that disturbed you, you would tell me to be quiet about it?”

Jemma glanced at her friend quickly. “What do you mean?”

Daisy rolled her shoulders, eyes darting to the top of the sculpture above them. “Nothing, perhaps, it’s just that you seem a bit out of sorts today. Rather like you’re thinking of something that makes you unhappy. And if it’s something I can help, I’d like to do so. I do want you to be happy, Jemma.”

Pressing her lips together, Jemma sought the point of her parasol again. Daisy’s kindness was nearly more than she could bear in this moment; with tears pooling just beneath the surface, the risk they would spill out was too great to meet her friend’s concern directly. “Thank you,” she managed finally. “Only if we could, perhaps, not mention Mr. Fitz quite so much.”

“Anything,” Daisy said.

Jemma didn’t look up. “And I rather think I will have a headache next week, so you and Mrs. May needn’t worry about me.”


	6. Chapter 6

Had she had her own wishes, Jemma would have never returned to the Crystal Palace. It had been a glorious experience, but if she was ever to get over its loss she needed to start as soon as possible. However, her friends would not allow that course of action.

“You must come,” Daisy insisted, “you still haven’t seen the Indian exhibit. You shall regret it your whole life if you don’t see it.”

Jemma thought, rather drearily, that she would almost never have seen any of the Exhibition, but she couldn’t disappoint Daisy, so she agreed to attend one last time. It could only be one last time, because the Exhibition would be closing within the week. Many of the exhibitors had already removed their manufactures, though she couldn’t help but notice Mr. Fitz’s press remained proudly in its place. She almost preferred it this way; it felt as desolate as her spirits.

The Indian exhibit was, indeed, impressive. She could recognize that. She even found herself interested in several of the displays, excited in spite of herself by such strange and new sights. There was a niche decorated to imitate the throne room of an Indian ruler, sumptuous hangings of silk and cotton, cases stuffed full of curious statues, and, as she had glimpsed so long ago, a stuffed elephant bearing a litter and headdress that rivaled even the most glorious carriage. The cases of jewels alone boggled the imagination; how could such riches be but a portion of the wealth the land offered? “And can you believe,” Daisy said as they examined them, the reflected light turning her face varicolored, “that no one has stolen any of them? I’m almost tempted to take one myself, just to look at.”

After the luxury and wealth in the rest of the bay, Jemma was prepared to be amazed by Koh-i-Noor. With all this merely as its court, the largest diamond in the world must be beautiful enough to blind a person. She, Daisy, and Mrs. May waited their turn to step up to the ironwork cage that held the jewel, which was nearly invisible behind the ebbing crowd.

Daisy held her hat on with one hand. “Everyone’s come for last looks.”

Not everyone, Jemma thought, and shoved it away quickly. With or without him, she was going to see the crowning jewel of this astounding Exhibition and she did not intend to spoil the experience by pining.

Seeing a gap, Mrs. May pushed the girls in front of her to put them right up at the side of the cage. Jemma closed her eyes for a moment, suddenly nervous. “Daisy, I can’t look. Tell me.”

“Well, it’s—” She sucked in a sharp breath and released it carefully. “Well, Jemma, it’s not what you expect, I think.”

Jemma’s eyes flew open. There, lying in the bottom of the cage, was a slightly shiny rock. It didn’t look anything like the diamond of her dreams. It hardly looked like a diamond at all. Even the gaslights trained on the jewel couldn’t make it shine as it should; Jemma had geodes in her collection that were more impressive. Only the size was worth mentioning, and what use was there for a rock that large? She stared at it a moment, unblinking, before spinning away into the crowd to dash the tears from her eyes. She could not be seen crying over something this foolish. Vaguely hearing Daisy’s voice behind her, she did not stop until, eyes on the floor, she ran bodily into a broad chest.

“Beg pardon,” a familiar voice said above her.

She did not look up, having made this mistake before. “No, my apologies. I wasn’t watching—”

“Miss Simmons?”

None of the mistakes had known her name, but surely it couldn’t be—

“Goodness, Miss Simmons, here, take my handkerchief, whatever is the matter? You aren’t hurt, are you?”

No, she was _not_ mistaken, and she accepted the handkerchief in a daze, looking up into the one face she had thought to never see again. His blue gaze was warm, if concerned; his eyebrows were drawn together worriedly; the corner of his mouth was trembling a little. She couldn’t draw a breath for a moment. “No,” she managed finally, watching him watch her. “I’m perfectly well, thank you, sir. Only astonished to see you. I thought you said—”

“I said I hoped to come back, and now I have.”

“Mr. Fitz!” Now she could not ignore Daisy, as her friend had nearly tumbled over them in her enthusiasm, Mrs. May following a reasonable distance behind. “How glorious this is! It hasn’t been right without you here this whole long month. And how perfect that you came upon us here, of all places! Though I am sorry that we’ve already seen Koh-i-Noor.”

“I knew you would be here somewhere,” he said, flickering a smile in her direction while not removing his eyes from Jemma’s. “And what did you think of the diamond?”

“Oh, I’d seen it before. Only for Jemma was it the first time. I think she was rather disappointed, weren’t you?”

“Oh no, it was quite impressive.” Their combined disbelief forced her to some semblance of the truth. “Only diamonds leave me cold. I much prefer sapphires.”

“I prefer topaz, if it comes to that,” Daisy said, words weighty with the knowledge of what Jemma really meant, “but diamonds have their place, I think. Don’t you, Mr. Fitz?”

Now he did look away, startled. “Oh, er—I—yes, perhaps, but nothing a sapphire couldn’t do as well. Except cut glass.”

“Well, I shall keep that in mind should I ever need to cut glass.” Daisy’s eyebrow arched. “Speaking of, I did want to see the glass again. Would either of you care to join me?”

“Actually—”

The three looked at him, somewhat surprised at the conviction that one word carried. He wilted a little under their stares, but only enough to sound like himself. “Actually, Mrs. May, could I—would you let me—might I have a moment’s private conversation with Miss Simmons? I’ve something rather particular to ask her.”

And Mrs. May responded with the most dispatch Jemma had ever heard: “Certainly.”

He nodded gratefully, motioning an astounded Jemma away from their friends. Without that direction, she might not have been able to move, so stunned was she by his question and Mrs. May’s easy acquiescence. There was only one reason a young man sought a private audience with a young lady and, while she had never experienced it before, Jemma believed that such matters were customarily handled in a different order and setting. And yet, she thought as she walked past the elephant and towards a corner full of silks and cottons, she could not fault him for his theatricality. She might not have expected it of him, but something about it seemed appropriate.

Once in the corner, she stopped and turned to him, folding her hands demurely. He had sought this meeting, after all; he had the right to speak first. Despite her clear signs, he hesitated before speaking, fidgeting uneasily. Jemma pressed her lips together. She could say nothing until he spoke and she did wish he would get on with it. A lady never made up her mind ahead of the facts.

Then, finally, he pulled the leather pocketbook from under his arm and held it between them. “Now I have time, I’d like to explain to you why I had to leave.”

She blinked, not having expected this as an opening gambit. “All right.”

“I’m slightly more than nobody in Glasgow—everyone knows that the master’s a fool and he never made that press no matter how much he tells them—”

“Obviously.”

She did not think she imagined the smile that flashed across his face. “Well, I thought I would have a better chance there than here at getting investors.”

“Investors?” she echoed, growing more confused with every word out of his mouth.

“Yes, I’ve been saving for a long time, but I haven’t had enough—it’s difficult to go into business for oneself if you don’t have wealthy relatives; banks are usually solvent because they don’t just throw money at any young pup with a good idea—”

“Yes, but, Mr. Fitz—”

“—but a young pup with a pile of good ideas,” he continued, pushing the folder into her hands, “him, they might take a chance on.”

Obeying the direction implied by his eyebrows, she opened the pocketbook to find sheets and sheets of official-looking documents. All her previous ideas of what he might want to ask her flew out of her head as she tried to make sense of what she had in her hands. She turned each page over carefully, his meaning becoming clear the farther she went and the more she read: the false arm. The anesthetic pistols. The centrifuge. The carriage. The system for cataloging debris found at murder scenes. “Mr. Fitz,” she breathed, “it’s all our projects. And these are—”

“Patents,” he said, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. “At least, they will be, once I turn them in.”

“And you’ve been looking for investors to make them.” She glanced up quickly, a wide smile spreading across her face. “Mr. Fitz! How marvelous. I wish you all the luck in the world.” And she did. Of course she was a little hurt that she could have no place in this scheme, but such was the world they lived in; there was no reason he couldn’t profit by them and it would be a crime to deny the world their achievements. They could do so much good.

“Yes, but. You aren’t looking where you ought to be.”

“What do you mean?”

“Here.” Snagging the papers back from her, he flipped through them and pulled out four or five. “Look at the names.”

She accepted the proffered papers and glanced where he indicated, only to catch her breath and look again. “Mr. Fitz! My name. You’ve given me—”

“Credit, yeah, of course. I had to. They’re half yours—more than half, really, and if there’s any profits, you’ll get 60 percent.”

“Oh!” She crushed the papers to her chest, heedless of any wrinkles she might be putting into the official documents. “Mr. Fitz, this is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me. But I can’t accept it.”

“There’s nothing _to_ accept, it’s already done. Would you have me fill up all that paperwork again?”

She laughed a little, shaking her head. “It’s too much.”

“But it’s yours already. It’s only fair.”

“It’s not fair to you, though. What if I were to marry? Then my husband would get my share when he had done nothing for it. I would rather you have everything than that.”

One second he was laughing at her, slightly stubborn; the next he had taken a step back and was looking at the floor. The change was as sudden as if she had struck him. She wished she could reach out and tip up his chin, but contented herself with infusing as much warmth into her voice as she could. “Mr. Fitz? What have I said?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, that is a clear falsehood, as I have said many things. Come, my friend.” She stumbled a little over the endearment. Though they were friends, of course, it seemed far more intimate than she had guessed it would. “What’s made you so glum?”

“Nothing,” he said again, then seemed to think the better of it and stepped forward, eyes bright. “Only, I thought you weren’t going to get married. Because you couldn’t be a wife and a scientist.”

Now it was her turn to take a step back. “How did you—do you speak French after all?”

“Miss Simmons, we talked about that untranslated Jules Verne story! Of course I speak French.” He shook his head. “But that’s not relevant, is it?”

“Of course it is! Had I known—”

“What difference would it have made? Either you intend to marry or you don’t, whether I know about it or not. Do you?”

“Well, I—” Where had the oxygen gone? Perhaps it had been set on fire by the heat jumping between them—“I don’t know. I hadn’t—considered it. Until recently. Because it’s impossible to do both, and how could I choose?”

“Don’t,” he said, coming even closer. “You don’t have to choose.”

She huffed out a laugh, amazed that even the best and most enlightened of men could be so ignorant. “Mr. Fitz. Please don’t presume to tell me what I am able to do or not do—you are a man, and cannot be aware of all the deprivations my sex must undergo. As a married woman, I lose all legal rights—”

“Legal, yes, but not moral.”

“And where shall I find a man to agree to hand over such monies as will no doubt be forthcoming from your enterprise?”

“Marry me.”

Her planned rebuttal disappeared in a poof of disbelief, perhaps the first time in her life that she had been shocked to silence. And with so little, too—two words, two words even that she had come to this corner expecting to hear, and she could not manage to come up with _any_ response, much less an appropriate one. There were too many emotions running through her to seize upon the one that would provide an answer: She was surprised by his bluntness. She was dismayed by the lack of regard for proper engagement procedures. She was overwhelmed by the fact that she had just been offered anyone’s hand in marriage and she was, underlying all these potent emotions, radiantly happy that the offered hand was his. The sheer force of her feelings took her breath away, precluding speech, and she gaped at him inelegantly.

Interpreting her silence as mere shock, perhaps, he nodded, growing in confidence. “That would solve all our problems, wouldn’t it? You could have your fair share of the profits—actually, they’d all be your profits because I’m supposed to endow my worldly goods—and you could be a scientist to your heart’s content and it would make it so much easier to collaborate on our projects. Much better than having to sort it out between here and there.”

“Our projects,” she echoed, fumbling from her noisy thoughts to the actual facts. “These projects?”

“And anything else new we come up with. You don’t think I would—I _could_ do this without your collaboration, Miss Simmons?”

And with that, her heart fell the entire length of the Crystal Palace. He didn’t really want to marry her—at least, he didn’t want to marry her for the reasons one had always believed were a requirement for lifelong commitments. He wanted a partner, not a wife, and marriage was simply the most convenient way to achieve that goal.

She stopped short in her mental process, heedless of his continued babbling. Partnership in invention and progress with the man she knew to be her dearest friend in the world—it ticked all the items on her packing list for the castle in the air. Shouldn’t that be enough? Yes. Why, then, this sad emptiness in her chest, akin to the loss she had felt this whole week past?

Ah.

It should be enough but it was not. Her witching-hour self was the more truthful; science was no longer the most tender object of her affection. Perhaps she had been so sure that science and marriage were natural enemies that she had lowered her defenses, allowing Mr. Fitz to sneak past. Or perhaps he would have done so anyway, with his cleverness and kindness and the thousand other facets of his character she was truly privileged to know. Who could say? And what did it matter? Jemma could no longer deny it: against all intentions, she had grown _most_ warmly attached to Mr. Fitz. Friends they were indeed, but one did not feel as though one had lost half one’s soul when parted from a mere friend, whatever the poets said. To be completely accurate, she earnestly, deeply, wholly loved him.

“Mr. Fitz,” she said desperately, cutting him off mid-sentence, “may I clarify? You have asked me to marry you…as a business proposition?”

She could accept that, in time, she thought, as long as she understood it was so from the beginning. Far better to have him and science in any capacity than very little science and no him.

“What?” he said in his turn, horribly at sea. “The business will be part of it, but I don’t—”

“Only,” she continued ruthlessly, “I believe it is customary in these situations to declare one’s feelings, should any exist; I understand one often stumbles through it, while I have seldom heard you more sure of yourself—not that I wish you to be uncertain, because you have no reason to be so, but a lady does expect certain things of her very first marriage proposal, and I do think it might be behooveful—”

“Do you _want_ those things?” He sounded honestly astounded, reaching for the papers she still clutched as if to take her hands. “I can say them all if you want.”

She frowned, blinking back tears. “Only if they are truly meant.”

“Truly meant!”

He stared at her a moment and she did not look away, too enraptured by the book of his eyes to be cognizant of their boldness. The secret was back again, so open that she thought the stream of people flowing around them must be able to read it if they tried at all. To Jemma, who was rapidly deciding that he might be equal to all the books in all the world, it was as plain as print on a page, and she sliced the uncut pages of her own heart and offered him the privilege of first reader.

Then he gently took the pocketbook from her, closed it, and dropped it on the ground. She made a small noise. “They’ll be fine,” he said, “look, I’m stepping on them so no one can steal them.”

“Daisy says there has been very little crime here anyway.”

“I’d rather lose them a hundred times over than have you think—” He stopped to laugh at himself, shaking his head. “I looked up what I’m supposed to say, you know. Went to the library and ordered the etiquette book and everything. I just thought—you were so firm about your independence and who can blame you, it’s positively criminal to deny women what men in their position would have—”

“Mr. Fitz,” she said gently, trying to hold back her decidedly unladylike grin.

“Right—well, I believed that my suit was a cause doomed to failure. Ironic, really, because it wasn’t until after I heard that that I even started thinking about you, you know, in that way. We were friends, I thought.”

“That, I hope, has not changed.”

“No, never.” He brought his hands together in front of him, twisting his thumb into his palm. “That was going to be enough, I swear it was. Even had you not been so set on spinsterhood, I don’t—I _didn’t_ have anything to offer. But when Miss Coulson was ill and you didn’t come, I felt—”

“—like something important—”

“—was missing. I began to think of the end of the Exhibition in a panic, trying to conceive a way to still see you once it was done; I was glad the next day when the master told me to stay away so I could think in peace, and then you appeared like an angel and brought the solution.”

“Me! What did I do?”

“Don’t you know?” At her confused shake of the head, he held out both hands as if presenting her to herself. “Miss Simmons, we had sheets of brilliant ideas stuffed into my coat pocket and I never thought I could do anything with them until you told me that I was extraordinary. No one has ever believed in me as you have, and so I have never had the confidence to try. But you—if someone like you could find someone like me—”

She could not help the glad tears that swum in her eyes. “Mr. Fitz, it is entirely the other way around. Entirely. No”—she spoke firmly to forestall his attempted interruption—“no, I shall not let you belittle yourself so. You trust my intelligence, don’t you?”

His answer came out a frog-like croak. “More than most things in life.”

“Well then.” She nodded briskly and continued the story. “And so you determined to go away and do something with our ideas. But why didn’t you simply say so?”

“And what,” he asked, “was I to say? Even I know you can’t tell a girl ‘I’m going away to make myself worthy of you’.”

“No, Mr. Fitz—”

“Do you want to hear promises of undying devotion, or are you going to keep interrupting me?” She shut her mouth with a snap, and he smiled quickly before nodding. “So I left.”

“But you said you didn’t mean to come back!”

“Again, I said I _hoped_ to, but I didn’t have any expectations that my project would be so successful so soon. If it hadn’t worked, I would have just gotten over my heartbreak.”

“Hardly fair,” she said, “without even asking me about it?”

“You intended to be a spinster! How was I to know that—well, that—”

The schoolgirl flush crept across his face and she laughed aloud. “As I didn’t even begin to guess it myself until you left, you weren’t, except that you are far cleverer than I. But was this all a plot, then? Did you look up proposal etiquette and decide it was drivel?”

“Well, I rather guessed the way to your heart was through patents.” He sighed under her only-partially chiding expression. “I didn’t intend to propose at all, at least not yet—I only wanted not to lose our friendship, and only my dreams betrayed the hope that in time it might blossom into more. Though, Miss Simmons, for me it was already far more than even the very closest bonds of friendship.”

Buoyed by his declaration, she swelled up onto her toes, sending her skirts swinging. Oh, that metal waistcoat was at work again; all she wanted was to throw herself into his arms. Instead, she dropped back down and clasped her own hands in front of her demurely. “That’s much better. Pray continue.”

“I won’t.” She began to protest in mock-indignation but he cut her off entirely. “If I tried to tell you how much I care for you, we could be here another six months at least; I could fill the entire exhibition catalogue with reasons. In this whole building full of astonishing and wonderful things, you are chief among them, and I would like nothing better in all the world than if you would do me the very great honoring of marrying me for reasons that have nothing at all to do with the highly successful business we’re going to build together and everything to do with the fact that I love you.”

She could not speak for a moment, entirely overwhelmed. And yet this silence was different from the one previous; she was not looking this time for an answer, but for the right words to contain the entirety of her surety and vow. None of the usual responses would do for this man who meant and offered her everything. Then, an idea coming to mind, she schooled her face to solemnness—at least, as solemn as she could make it when a laugh kept fighting to escape—and held her hand between them, thumb to the roof. He understood immediately and met her there, shaking her hand twice firmly in the manner of businessmen. “In lieu of any profits,” she said, corners of her mouth tipping upwards, “I will happily accept your hand and heart for my lifetime and that of my descendants. And I rather think I’m getting the best of the bargain, to be quite honest.”

The sudden joy that filled his face found a twin with the rush coursing through her as they stood beaming at each other like a pair of idiots, unable to move from this place that marked the spot where their happiness began. They knew not how long they stood there, neither moving nor speaking until Daisy sidled up to them reluctantly. “May says I’m to come fetch you. If you have a moment, Mr. Fitz, she has some questions about how the heavier items might have been transported here…?”

Somehow he snapped himself back to business, nodding sharply as he stooped to pick the pocketbook off the floorboards. “Of course. Anything for Mrs. May.”

Daisy watched him walk away, rather unsteadily Jemma thought without blame, before pouncing on her friend. “ _Now_ may I be the first to congratulate you, or offer you best wishes, or whatever it is etiquette dictates?”

Jemma squeezed her hand warmly. “Even had I such an announcement, etiquette dictates several steps before I would be allowed to tell you anything.”

“But he was holding your hand!”

“Indeed! We had to shake upon our agreement. You may congratulate me for that, at least—we are to embark on a commercial enterprise together.”

Daisy made a disappointed noise, nearly pouting. “Is that _all_?”

Darling Daisy, without whom none of her happiness would be possible. Was there no way to share the joy that she felt gushing out of her like water from the fountains? She considered, eyes dancing away into the corner. “However, I _will_ say, as you are my dearest friend”—her formerly dearest friend now being her betrothed—“I feel entirely comfortable telling you that there are treasures more valuable even than Koh-i-Noor.”

“Oh, are there?” Daisy asked archly, a smile spreading across her face.

Laughing, she linked her arm with Daisy’s and followed after her magnetic pole, unable to resist the pull. “Indeed! I am now quite content with the Exhibition. I feel I have gained from it—the world.”

And later—after her father had gone over the business proposal and her mother had cried and everything of any importance was settled, after he had promised her a sapphire as soon as ever they could afford it, after they were granted a few moments of solitary, delicious silence and she found there were pleasures to be enjoyed there that talking did not allow—then, Jemma knew for a fact that what she had actually gained from the Exhibition was a whole _new_ world, one infinitely more interesting, more exciting, and more _wonderful_ than she had ever dreamt.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reason Jemma finds the diamond so disappointing is not merely because Fitz is not there (though that's part of it) but because the diamond had not yet been cut! A lot of people were disappointed at the time because it didn't look like what they thought it should.
> 
> That is the end! I hope you enjoyed it.

**Author's Note:**

> Everything mentioned, apart from Fitz's hydraulic press, is an actual display at the Exhibition. It was my goal to make it as historically accurate as possible; please forgive any errors (and tell me if they're especially egregious so I can fix them!).
> 
> Here is a floor plan of the Crystal Palace so you can have an idea of how they're moving around. I find it very helpful, personally:  
> https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/57/Crystal_Palace_-_plan.jpg


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